That Old Familiar Feeling
by Genevievey
Summary: A pre-3.03 story - prevention is the best cure. An interpretation of the slow-burning courtship of Lady Edith and Anthony Strallan...in which things that need to be said eventually are. (Note: rating rises to M in the final chapters)
1. Prologue

_**Author's Note:** I cannot seem to get over this couple - probably because I've adored them since Series 1. And while I'm still holding out faint hope for Fellowes' canon...I can't resist intervening myself, for the sake of our dear couple. 3x03 was a beautifully tragic episode - and many people are writing truly excellent Post-3x03 fics - but I'm going to take a different tack. (Prevention, as they say, is the best cure)._

_I admit here and now that anything approaching angst in this fic will be sentimentally resolved - and, unless I curb my imagination, may end up quite thoroughly M by the final chapters. (Because we, to say nothing of Edith and Anthony, deserve it.) _

_I suppose this fic is sort of in the style of Series 1 and 2 - in which difficulties were still surmountable, and trials (eventually) brought out the best in every Crawley. And, speaking of Series 1...well, may I present the Prologue..._

_(Thanks to WisdomState - my charming beta, and writer of excellent EdithxAnthony fic herself!)_

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

_June, 1914_

Sir Anthony Strallan set down his knife and fork, glad of the momentary distraction as the dinner things were cleared away. Lady Alanham's dinners were usually pleasant enough – but just this evening, Sir Anthony was finding it difficult to be sufficiently intrigued by the conversations around him. Instead of listening as he ought to to Sir Walton's discourse on the difficulties of finding good staff, he found that his mind kept turning to a rather more fascinating, much more surprising conversation he had had earlier that day.

'_A poet in need of an empire'. What a way of putting it…_

"And what about you, Sir Anthony?"  
With a jolt, the gentleman realised that he was being spoken to – and made a valiant attempt to disguise the fact that his attention had been wandering. Mercifully, Lady Alanham continued, filling what might have become an awkward silence.

"You will join us, won't you? I know it will be nothing to the orchestras of Vienna…but I have heard excellent things about this series of concerts. I believe this next one is to be an operatic recital – Puccini, Bellini, and suchlike. Will you come?"  
"Oh, certainly, Lady Alanham," he smiled in relief – and indeed it would not be any great trial to attend. Though he had never had much aptitude as far as instruments were concerned, Anthony had always been fond of music.  
"Well, I shall book the tickets, then," beamed Lady Gervis, who had a house close by the theatre in York. "How many seats? Two for yourself and Lord Alanham, obviously. Sir Anthony – will you be bringing a guest?"  
He was on the point of shaking his head – as much out of habit as anything else – when he found another recent memory rising to his mind, unbidden.

"_But it must have been terribly interesting, all the same,"_ Lady Edith had beamed, when they had finally exhausted the political element of his European travels. She had been quite prettily animated in her enthusiasm. _"Such cultured cities – all those great composers." _

"Two tickets, please, Lady Gervis."

The words had left his mouth before he quite knew what was happening – and Anthony could only offer a tight smile as a few of the ladies around him tittered knowingly. No doubt they had heard that Sir Strallan had been dining at Downton Abbey as of late. They would, however, be surprised to learn _which_ of the Crawley girls was to accompany him…assuming, that was, that Lady Edith were available – and even _vaguely_ interested.

Anthony groaned internally at his uncharacteristic show of spontaneity. Had he caught too much sun, on their drive? But he would have to ask her, now. There was no escaping it. Not that he didn't relish the prospect of her company…but, well…a casual drive in the countryside was one thing, but dinner and a concert were quite another. To request her company was practically to declare intentions…intentions which a widower like himself probably shouldn't have on so young a lady – even if she _did_ seem mature beyond her…what, twenty years?

_What are you doing, you old fool?_

He was still asking himself that question a few days later, as he turned up the drive to Downton Abbey – a 'spontaneous' detour from his evening's destination, the Calendar-Becketts'. But however foolish Anthony tried to tell himself he was being, he found he could not change his plans. There was no one _else_ he could invite, after all…and what harm could there really be in taking the girl – an intelligent, musically-aware girl – to an operatic recital? A good two hours of the evening would be spent in silent appreciation, after all. Yes, it was all quite harmless. Even so, Sir Anthony took a deep breath to steel himself, as the rather surly footman announced his entrance to the Crawleys' sitting room.

And it all went…_well_. Though it had been a good few decades since he had last made such an invitation, Anthony managed to maintain something of a casual demeanour, Lady Grantham smiled in approval – and Lady Edith seemed quite pleased at the prospect of joining him. In fact, it might not have been too much of an exaggeration to say that she seemed _very_ pleased…

_Don't flatter yourself, old man. The chances are good that the girl has never been to a recital before – young as she is._

* * *

Self-reproach and self-deprecation aside, it was not without anticipation that Sir Anthony returned to Downton at six o'clock the next Friday. It was a fine evening for it, at least – and as Lady Grantham smilingly ushered the two of them out into the twilight, Lady Edith's manner wavered endearingly between shyness and enthusiasm. Anthony offered her his arm.

"I'm very glad you're able to join me tonight, Lady Edith," he began, as his chauffeur opened the car door. "And – if I may say so – you look quite lovely."  
She glowed at that, a faint blush colouring her cheeks – and Anthony appeased himself with the recognition that, after all, to compliment a lady was merely the done thing. He was simply going through the motions – that was all.

His decision to use a chauffeur for the evening proved to be beneficial in more ways than one. Not only would there be no hassle trying to park the car in York, but it meant that he could attend fully to Lady Edith's conversation throughout the lengthy drive – and her conversation proved just as diverting as the last time they had met. She was remarkably well-informed on current politics, and, given a willing listener, would offer her opinions gladly. Anthony rather suspected she did not have the luxury of such conversations back at Downton.

He was almost sorry when they pulled up outside the theatre – except that Lady Edith's enthusiasm was quite endearingly obvious as she gathered up her gloves and fan, arranging her wrap about her shoulders. Giving her his hand out of the car, he turned to spot the Alanhams, the Gervises, and the Calendar-Becketts gathered near the entrance. Squaring his shoulders a little, Sir Anthony offered the lady his arm, and a reassuring smile – and together they made their way over to the join the party.

"Ah, Sir Anthony – you've made it!"  
"And right on time."  
"And this must be…"  
"Lady Edith Crawley," he smiled graciously, as the young lady stepped forward to shake hands with his friends.  
"A pleasure," Lady Gervis smiled rosily, shooting Anthony a glance before turning to gesture to her companions. "I'm not sure if you know Lady Alanham, and Lady Calendar-Beckett?"  
"I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance," Lady Edith smiled, and Anthony felt…well, almost _proud_, as the ladies welcomed her into their fold. Which was ridiculous, of course.  
"We'd best get a move on," suggested Lord Alanham, checking his pocket watch. "Does everyone have their tickets?" It was only appropriate that Lady Edith should once more take his arm as they entered the recital hall.

"Are you familiar with the works of Puccini, Lady Edith?" Lady Gervis enquired, as they took their seats.  
"I'm afraid not," the girl admitted, with an apologetic smile. "I've been to the ballet in London, with my aunt – we saw _Giselle _last spring – but I've never been to an opera as such."  
"Well," said the older woman, with a deliberate smile in Anthony's direction, "we must see to that immediately. I believe there's to be a full production of _Carmen_ next month."  
The implication was overt – as was Lady Gervis' approval – but any embarrassment Anthony might have felt was banished when Lady Edith shot him a shy, gratified smile.  
Oh, she _was_ rather sweet…

It was perhaps convenient that just at that moment the lights dimmed, turning all attention to the musicians striking up a rousing overture. And Lady Alanham had been quite right – they were very good, this orchestra. The selections were varied enough in tone to hold one's attention, and the tenors and sopranos were quite marvellous. Between items they would consult the programme – and though his Italian was rusty at best, Lady Edith seemed perfectly content (not to say impressed) with his vague translations. It was turning out to be quite the most agreeable evening Sir Anthony had spent in…years.

Which may have been why, as the concert wore on, he allowed his attention to wander with increasing frequency from the brightly-lit stage to the softly-lit young woman sitting next to him. Lady Edith truly appreciated the music, he could tell – while for most ladies being seen at concerts was simply a matter of course. And it was so refreshing – not only to have a partner at all, but one who was so engaged with the whole evening, one who smiled at everyone from the tenors to the ushers, one who…was currently regarding this particular aria with slightly damp eyes.

The girl was genuinely moved by Puccini. _How rare_…

Before Anthony knew quite what he was doing or why, he had pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and was gently, surreptitiously pressing it into the lady's hand. He should hate to cause her any embarrassment by drawing attention, and they both sat quite still – only the slightest catch of breath betrayed her surprise as he felt the handkerchief accepted from his grasp. Anthony tried to keep his mouth from curving upwards, his eyes still fixed on the stage – then a few moments later, Lady Edith's hand found his on the armrest between them, pressing the linen back into his hand. And before he could stop himself, Anthony's fingers closed not only around the handkerchief, but around Lady Edith's fingers as well.

It was almost a casual touch, and certainly an unassuming one – he ensured that she might extricate her hand if she wished to – but, in truth, Anthony felt far from casual in that moment. His gaze fixed straight ahead, he caught her soft gasp – and then, in spite of himself, felt a steadily-rising warmth as second after second slipped away without her recoiling.

_What kind of fool __are__ you? _jibed some voice within.  
_Do you really think you're suave? Clamping onto the girl's hand that way – and during this of all arias! You pathetic old romantic.  
_However, Anthony was also finding it rather difficult to care how ridiculous he might be – when Lady Edith's small, warm hand resting in his seemed evidence to the contrary. It stayed there for the duration of the aria – and when the item ended he reached for the programme again, tucking his handkerchief away as though not a thing had happened. As she turned to check the programme their eyes met for the first time in several minutes – and if she had been glowing prettily _before_...

"What was that last one?"  
Anthony paused one self-preserving moment, readying himself for embarrassment.  
"_Che Gelida Manina_ – or, ah, Your Tiny Hand Is Frozen," he informed her, making a valiant attempt to mask his sheepishness, for both their sakes.  
"Ah," was all that Lady Edith said, but he could see that she was reigning in a smile.  
The next piece was a rousing and distinctly unromantic military march – which could not have explained the faint blush lingering in the young lady's cheeks – but mercifully their brief exchange had gone unnoticed.

So the evening went on, and Anthony had _almost_ berated himself into guilt over the small liberty he'd taken by the time they stood to leave. The reign of sober sense was short-lived however; for soon the party were gathered around Lady Gervis' dining table, reflecting on the concert and conversing. It was a merrier affair than most formal dinner parties, everyone animated by the evening's entertainment, and the discussion turned from opera and travel to books. Lady Edith was by now quite thoroughly welcomed into the ladies' circle, and the gentlemen seemed quite impressed with her as well.

"You're obviously a voracious reader, Lady Edith," remarked Lord Alanham, when the young woman added to their debate on the comparative literary merit of Andrew Marvell and John Donne.  
"Quite," she admittedly laughingly. "I should hate to let my father's library go to waste."  
She smiled across at Anthony then, to find him regarding her with interest, and he raised his glass to his lips to keep from staring. Lady Edith was proving quite the ideal dinner partner, everything else aside – and again, Anthony felt that ridiculous pride, in having her seen with him.

Of course, the concert set their dinner back a good few hours, so it was not long after dessert that the Alanhams, and the Calendar-Becketts, and Sir Anthony and his guest stepped out into the summer evening. The air was still warm – as were the farewells.  
"What a pleasure it's been, Sir Anthony. We must all do this again," beamed Lady Gervis, from the doorway. It was clearly implicit that the invitation also extended to Lady Edith – and he rather hoped she wouldn't be frightened off by the suggestion…but it certainly didn't seem so, judging by her pleased expression.  
"Goodbye, old chap!"  
"Get home safely, now!"  
"Good evening!"

They were quieter, on the journey back. Every now and then one of them would remark on one of the evening's arias, or something one of the guests had said, or one of the grand houses they were passing, and that would spur a quiet conversation – but for the most part they shared an easy silence. The fields of Yorkshire rolled by in the moonlight, and Anthony was almost unbearably content.

When they pulled up outside Downton, the footman stepped out to greet Lady Edith, as Anthony gave her a hand out of his car.  
"Well…thank you very much for joining me, Lady Edith. It has been a remarkably pleasant evening."  
"Indeed it has," the young lady smiled, "thank you ever so much for inviting me. I had a wonderful time."

He allowed himself a moment to smile at her, the woman with lamplight shining on her golden curls – to enjoy the clichéd formality of being a gentleman bidding a lady goodnight. It had been entirely too long since he had played the role.  
"Goodnight then, Lady Edith. And give my regards to your parents."  
"Of course. Goodnight, Sir Anthony."

He spent the drive back to Locksley trying to convince himself that he had no real reason to smile. (His attempts proved unsuccessful).

Could he not, perhaps, trust this little undeserved happiness?


	2. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**

_December, 1919_

Edith Crawley was kneeling on the drawing room floor, sorting through a pile of boxes, and laughing at herself.

_You pride yourself on being so efficient, so very pragmatic, _she thought, pushing one box aside, _when in all honesty you're as sentimental as anyone.  
_There was a clamour somewhere below, as though something had been dropped, and she shook her head laughingly.  
_More__ sentimental, probably._

But then, Edith had always loved Christmastime, and now – when so much had changed, and was still changing – festive traditions were a reassuring constant. Change was necessary, and often greatly beneficial, Edith knew – but so were little touches of reassuring familiarity. And so she had taken it upon herself to tidy up any loose ends in the Christmas preparations at Downton. She didn't even mind. This was after all the only home, the only way of life, that Edith Crawley had ever known – and for all the imperfections of her life at Downton, she could not help feeling a certain possessive pride. This was _her_ family, _her_ life – and she would be ungrateful not to make the best of it. That was one thing the war had made painfully clear.

This 'making the best of it' involved continual (and sometimes strenuous) efforts not to feel hard done by – not to feel lonelier even than she had used to feel as a young girl. After all, there had been a time when the three of them – Mary, Sybil, and herself – would have demanded the run of the house on days like this: would have been everywhere at once, arranging wreaths and decorating the tree and insisting on mistletoe even though they were all too young for actual suitors. There had been a time when their greatest concern had been that Sybil might topple from the gallery as she reached down to set the Christmas angel on the highest bough – the dear, impetuous little thing she had always been. But now Sybil was in Dublin with her husband, and Mary was quite preoccupied keeping Sir Richard in a tolerable mood…so here Edith was, by herself, searching through the record collection for something to play the following evening.

Something by Irving Berlin, perhaps? Lovely, but maybe a little awkwardly romantic – what with Sir Richard glowering all over the place. 'Swanee'? No, that would only get Granny going on about Americans. 'Che Gelida Manina'…

Edith's fingers stilled on the paper sleeve, a soft gasp escaping her. Not because intense Italian opera was the perfect accompaniment for Christmas festivities – but because she was struck by the vivid recollection of the last time she had heard that particular aria…

The bustle of the theatre, as he showed her to her seat…the sweet shock of finding her gloved hand held in his larger one…the way he lowered his voice to translate the Italian for her...and then _those eyes_... All of it had been so thrilling.  
Oh, hadn't they been so _good_ together? In formal dress _or_ with the wind blowing their hair all astray?

_If only…_

"Milady?"

Edith's head snapped up, and she realized that her leg had gone to sleep, kneeling so long on the hardwood floor. How had long O'Brien been standing in the doorway?

"I'm sorry to disturb you milady, but the tree is up. I thought you'd like to know. And the footmen are just fetching the decorations now."  
"Ah, thank you O'Brien," Edith nodded, dusting off her hands. "I'll be down in a minute."  
"Very good, milady."

The Crawley's middle daughter turned immediately back to their records, tucking Puccini away with the others, and wasted no time in heading downstairs to join the festive commotion. Edith had never liked to waste time – and so only the next morning she found a moment to ask her father about the shoot on New Year's Day.

"Have you asked Anthony Strallan?" she enquired.

* * *

_January, 1920_

Sir Anthony had been rather surprised to receive an invitation to tea with the Dowager Countess. He had by no means intended to _offend_ the Crawleys by repeatedly declining their shooting invitations – but he _had_ expected that it might have nudged him further down their list of neighbours to call on. In fact, he had almost hoped so. He was hardly in the mood – or a fit state – for much in the way of socialising, just at present.  
_Or ever again_, came a bitter voice from within.

But tea at the dower house he could manage, surely. Lady Grantham, though a rather formidable woman, could be a perfectly amiable hostess – so long as all her guests toed the line – and she was often quite amusing. So why, as his car now neared its destination, was Anthony beginning to feel more than slightly nervous?

It would, of course, be an awkward meeting; having to explain the situation with his arm, and smilingly accept polite condolences. _The first of many such meetings_, that jibing voice reminded him. Though the doctor had suggested it would lessen his fatigue, Anthony would go without a sling, just for these first visits. Best to lessen the shock – or at least postpone it.  
_Coward._

But, if he were to be honest with himself, his nervousness about this particular meeting had much less to do with the Dowager Countess herself than with…well…her granddaughter. He had not so much as set eyes on Lady Edith for at least six years – and yet he could not think of the Crawley family without her coming instantly to mind. Without remembering the time they had spent together.

And Anthony was all too aware that to meet with her grandmother was as good as to meet with the girl herself – after all, he had only ever known her through her family. The Crawleys would all hear, through their matriarch, that Sir Anthony Strallan was back in the county; that he was rather the worse for wear, that he was now a cripple. And Lady Edith would no doubt be glad that she was well shot of the ghastly old bore who had once monopolised her. And a good thing it was, too.

The world had seemed so different, before the war – so sleepily stable and secure – that all sorts of ridiculous things had seemed possible. Marrying Edith Crawley, for one. Taking her back to Locksley, where she could have had space to herself, and a much-needed chance to shine as lady of the house. Could have brightened the place with her very presence…

But of course, it would have been a terrible mistake. To tie down a bright young woman like that would have been unforgivable – and even without his present infirmity, she was entirely too young to be saddled with a man of his age. No, it was all for the best that things had turned out as they did. Anthony would live out his days alone at Locksley…and if he still thought of her, now and again, what did it matter? It was enough that her brief presence had once brightened his days beyond imagining – she needn't know or care.

He was quite resolved on that point, and quite ready to meet with Lady Grantham as polite neighbours, as the footman announced him.

"Good afternoon, Lady Grantham," he began…

* * *

If the chauffeur noticed how quiet his master was on the journey back to Locksley, he made an effort not to show it – for which Anthony was grateful. One might have thought, an hour ago, that Sir Strallan was already in quite a sober, brooding state – but that was before he'd stepped into the Dowager Countess' sitting room, and found it rather fuller than anticipated.

Just as the door had closed behind him, the world had turned on its axis, transforming Lady Grantham's tastefully-decorated sitting room into the very hell of Tartarus – and Anthony, chained by the laws of propriety, suffered Tantalus' torture for a full twenty minutes (though it seemed eternal). Before his very eyes, and entirely beyond his reach, was Lady Edith Crawley – from whom he did not deserve so much as a smile, let alone all of the something-mores that rose his mind as she sipped her tea daintily.

She had been pretty, years ago – _very_ pretty, he'd thought, in that pale pink opera gown – but now she was…_beautiful_. Furthermore, her manner was mature, confident – if not a little awkward. And that was small wonder, upon finding herself cornered at a tea table with the old bore she no doubt looked back on with embarrassment.

It was to her credit that she was perfectly polite, and civil – kind, even – and entirely without condescension. The woman she had blossomed into in the intervening years was quite evidence enough that Anthony had done the right thing in leaving the garden party, all those years ago.

Lady Edith was quite capapble of making a woman of herself without him – that much was clear. And he would try, if and when they were again forced into each other's company, he would try very hard not to want her.

Not that it mattered, either way. He was an old man, and a cripple. There could be little danger of any foolishness, now. Surely.


	3. Chapter 2

_AUTHOR'S NOTE__: Thanks to all for your interest, and kind reviews! Here is another installment - I only hope it lives up to your expectations! I'm taking my time a little, to add detail to the scenes we rushed through - but there'll be a pay-off in a few chapters' time, I promise!_

_(Many thanks to my splendid beta WisdomState - whose work you should also read!) _

* * *

**C****HAPTER TWO**

He had been so sure – so very sure – that the both of them were beyond all danger. There had been no mention of a new young suitor during that painful tea time, it was true – but there had to _be_ one, he had assumed. How could there not be, when she looked like that and smiled like that, and conducted herself with such a charming brightness? Any man who hadn't taken leave of his senses would want her, surely. There must be someone else.

And yet, she had turned up at his house – driven herself, in one of her father's vehicles – inviting him to join her on a drive.

_Like they used to._

And he'd panicked. Declined. Been so boorishly blunt as to actually address the issue of their 'taking up together' again.

And what was astounding was that she had not denied any such intention – she hadn't blushed and insisted that she only meant to be a friend to him. Edith Crawley had flatly disagreed with him – quite fervently so. Perched delicately there on his chaise lounge, lovely curls clustered about her face, she had meet his gaze quite squarely – and insisted with astonishing frankness that she didn't think him too old for her, that she didn't accept a word of his argument, that she had no intention of giving up on someone who called her 'lovely'.

_And 'lovely' wasn't even the half of it._

It had been a mercy that Sampson had chosen that exact moment to re-enter with the tea things; because if decorum hadn't required it of him, Anthony wasn't sure he could have borne the disappointment in her eyes. He might've said something ridiculous – as it was, his tone had been strained.

But it would be a brief disappointment, on her part, he was sure. A pain of short duration. God alone knew why she even thought of him – but she could not continue to for long. A young woman in her prime, she would soon find another distraction: something or someone eminently more suitable.

And he could live secure in the knowledge that he had done what was right, that he had allowed her to live more fully.

Also the knowledge that, as it happened, she didn't think him an old man. And that, years ago, what Lady Mary had said had been untrue…

No, he was resolved. Entirely.

So _why the devil_ did he call out to her, like some idiot schoolboy, when his car sailed past her in the village a month later? Why was he nowhere near as reluctant as he should have been to have her settle next to him in the back seat, while they talked?

_Like they used to…_

* * *

Edith Crawley was trying very hard not to look pleased with herself – which was no easy task, when the man she had so long adored was regarding her with warm interest as they sat close together in his car. Even so, she tried as best she could to reign in her smile to something that would hopefully look more like polite interest than unbridled admiration.

But could Anthony Strallan _really_ sit with her this way, and talk with her so intently, without feeling the same electric awareness that he had once held her hand? That they had once been nearly-engaged? That they might have become man and wife?

_She_ was entirely incapable of forgetting it – that much was clearer than ever, just now. She hadn't been so aware of her own posture, or felt such an urge to say amusing things, since…well, the last time she'd been in a room with Anthony. And her efforts seemed successful, because he was smiling quite openly, and rewarding her quips with that deep chuckle she'd always loved, and…creating awkward silences with all-too-applicable comments about marriage. And that, in itself, was quite encouraging.

_Oh Lord, will I ever stop smiling?_

It was all so pleasing, so encouraging, after that other disappointing afternoon. Furthermore, it allowed her to ensure that they would have to meet again, and soon – she had been about to post the invitations to her mother's upcoming dinner (any excuse to get out of the house), and now she could put Sir Anthony's right into his very hand. _He'd_ been the one to call out to _her_, after all – so he could hardly try to avoid her company.

"You will come, won't you? Mama's very keen to get everyone together, now that things are calming after Christmas. It'd be so nice to see you."  
The man looked down at the envelope she had slipped into his hand, blinked, and smiled.  
"Oh, well, of course. I should be delighted. Your parents are always generous hosts."  
Edith tried not to look too relieved.  
"And my grandmamma won't be here yet – so it should still be quite a sedate affair," she added, smiling conspiratorially. Catching her meaning, Anthony chuckled again.  
"Now Lady Edith, I'm sure no grandmother of yours could be anything less than charming."  
She thrilled at his gallantry, but still managed to raise an eyebrow wryly.  
"Perhaps not – but rambunctious, certainly."

He shook his head in amusement – and Edith felt a blissful ache in the corners of her mouth, from being so very happy. It was on the point of becoming embarrassing, actually, so she shrugged and gathered up her purse.  
"Anyway, I shall look out for you at the dinner next week. Take care till then, Sir Anthony."  
She climbed carefully out of the back seat, and turned to shut the door just in time to see him nod a polite farewell.  
"Until then," he repeated, touching his hat so very charmingly.

As she strolled off over the cobbles, Edith breathed a quaking sort of sigh, and willed herself not to get too carried away. But she could hope now – even though she was quite sure he'd not meant to give her cause to do so. Still, she could only try – and who _wouldn't_, when such a dear, charming man was the incentive?

* * *

Still clasping the sealed envelope as he watched Edith Crawley walk away, Anthony could have kicked himself.

_Well, at least you've made such an utter fool of yourself that she will have seen the error of her ways_, he thought dryly – still deploring his ridiculous gaffe about weddings. He ducked his head, barely supressing a groan – and immediately noticed, on the seat next to him, a soft grey lady's glove.

Lady Edith had removed it a few minutes earlier, to fish through her purse for the invitations. Reaching for the dainty little thing, Anthony sighed in frustration. He couldn't very well chase after her – he'd only say something imbecilic once again, and embarrass the poor girl. Perhaps he might return it at the dinner.  
_Oh yes, because that wouldn't be awkward in the slightest._

Tucking the delicate glove into his breast pocket, Anthony sighed and checked his watch – hoping that the blasted train would arrive and provide a much-needed distraction.

_This is getting to be beyond a joke._

* * *

Running his good hand along the starched collar at his throat, Anthony squared his shoulders in an attempt to bolster himself. He wasn't quite used to wearing white tie again.

Formal dress seemed to belong to another time – to another _him_ that had been lost somewhere in the war. _Probably lying somewhere in the mud in France_, he thought darkly, barely repressing a genuine shudder.

_And what's the point trying to bring it back, that old time? You don't have the arms for it._

But Lady Grantham's invitation was sitting on his desk – and he had promised Lady Edith faithfully that he would be there. That was what it came down to, really – he wasn't fooling himself in the slightest if he tried to pretend anything else.

But at least tonight would fulfil his obligation. Their most recent, casual meeting had proved quite dangerous enough – so after this dinner he might be able to avoid any other lengthy meetings, in the future. _How?_ _By pretending to have an enormously busy social calendar?_  
He almost laughed.

If he was going to make this evening their last meeting for a long time, Anthony supposed he should return that glove of hers. He pulled it from his pocket, considering the soft material that had once covered her perfumed wrists… Then he cursed himself, tucking the glove back into his pocket, without any real hope of finding an opportunity to return it to her.  
_You pathetic old coward._

"The car is ready, sir," Sampson informed him, and Anthony flushed slightly, aware how very nearly he had been caught in possession of Lady Edith Crawley's glove. It felt almost illicit – or at least horribly, clichéd-ly romantic – both of which were entirely inappropriate, given the circumstances.

_What are you playing at, old man?_

* * *

He felt almost as nervous being driven up to Downton Abbey as he had felt driving up himself that sunny afternoon years ago, when he had dared to invite Lady Edith to a concert. Which was ridiculous – there were no such stakes this time around.

There was, however, the fact that he would have to recite his old "took a bullet in the wrong place" guff to any number of the neighbours he had previously managed to avoid. That would be trying – there were, after all, only so many sympathetic glances a man could take in one evening.

In fact, he was just in the middle of that tedious conversation, discussing the efficiency of modern medicine with Sir Grey, when Lady Edith walked in, looking mildly flustered and incandescently lovely. Anthony stared for nearly a full second before returning his attention to Sir Grey, and tried very hard to keep his eyes on the gentleman (or indeed on anything that wasn't Edith Crawley). But he found himself all too aware of her position in the room, and when he turned to accept a cocktail from the waiter their eyes met across the floor. The lady shot him a welcoming smile, which Anthony could only return – and try not to notice how very prettily that deep green velvet offset her pale skin. In fact, 'pretty' didn't really cover it…

It was all for the good that he was kept talking to his older neighbours for the first little while. By the time Lord Grantham turned away to greet another guest and Anthony found himself alone, Lady Edith was safely absorbed in conversation with some young chap. That was for the best… Oh, wait, it was the Grey boy. Anthony set his jaw – he barely knew Larry, but their brief acquaintance had been more than enough for Anthony to decide that he wouldn't trust the young man as far as he could throw him.  
_Which wouldn't be far, these days, old chap._

Anthony looked about for someone to hold his attention, but everyone seemed to be occupied, and he had never been the sort of man who could breezily insert himself into the middle of someone else's conversation – so in desperation he turned to admire a vase on the mantelpiece. To his chagrin, however, Larry Grey's voice carried all too well.

"Well it _has_ been a long time, Edith, old girl. Not since…your second season, am I right?"  
"I believe so."  
"Ah, but old friends can always reunite, now can't they? And how you've grown! In all the right directions, I mean. I say, your new hairstyle's very becoming – quite the modern girl these days, are you?"  
Anthony put a hand to the mantelpiece, trying not to seethe too openly. He did not like any of that boy's insinuations.

_How dare he be so familiar? Unless they have a past…_

Edith chuckled modestly. "Hardly – Mary dared me to have it bobbed."  
"Ah yes – always the daring one, your sister. And about to get married, I see. Lucky chap. No one on the horizons for you, then?"  
"Not just at present," came the lady's measured reply.  
"Ah well, chin up. I may very well snap you up – if nothing comes of my next trip to London. I do have my eye on someone, but she's proving entirely too predictable – I rather miss the thrill of the chase."

Anthony turned to face the wall, positive now that his expression must be unmistakably thunderous. Why, he wanted to march over there and…

But Lady Edith was already voicing something of the frustration he felt – rather more diplomatically, of course, with a little humour injected into her tone.  
"Why do men always go for women they have to chase after?"  
"Why?" laughed Larry. "Because if I didn't have to chase after her, I'd think nobody else wanted her."  
"But isn't the important thing that you want her, and that she wants you?"

_Oh God, Edith…_

Anthony couldn't help turning slightly, enough to see Larry Grey regarding the lady with a smirk.  
"Why, Edith, you're a terrible romantic."  
"I'm afraid so."  
"You do know that's quite thoroughly out of fashion, these days?"  
"Apparently so," the woman sighed, impervious, "but I can't seem to help myself."  
At which point Edith turned her head, and her eyes met with Anthony's.

Anthony felt the shock quite physically, caught in the act of watching her, and was barely able to return the shyly-smiling glance she bestowed on him. He scarcely heard Edith tell Larry (rather dryly) that she was terribly sorry, but she may well have to turn down his kind offer, and good luck to him in London.

Miraculously Mrs Crawley appeared, and engaged Anthony in conversation for a few minutes, until…until Lady Edith appeared beside them, positively glowing.

_She never smiled at Larry Grey like that_, some rebellious part of him noted.

But even the most austere and sensible voice within could not deny that Edith Crawley was looking at him warmly. She was extolling his capabilities to Mrs Crawley. She was insisting he should be at her sister's wedding. And under the warm gaze of this loveliest of girls, Anthony found he had less in the way of resolve than he'd hoped – it was all too easy to be flattered. Who wouldn't be, by such a marvellous woman?

"Well, if you really want me."  
"I do," she smiled, lowering her eyes demurely for a moment. "I really do."

And because he had to say _something_, just to ease the swelling in his chest, Anthony found himself delivering the kind of compliment that Lady Edith deserved from every man who ever set eyes on her. Well, she really deserved something much more eloquent than "you look very nice" – but it was all he could come up with while she was smiling at him that way – and with Mrs Crawley looking on. It was a step up from Larry Grey's abominable flirtation, at least.

And she seemed…quite pleased about it. God, the way she smiled…

It was some kind of mixed blessing that Lady Edith was seated at the other end of the table, when they went through; sufficiently far away that he couldn't admire her intelligent conversation, or her beautiful laugh, or the elegant line of her collarbone in that rather flattering dress…not without gazing down the dinner table like a lovesick schoolboy, at any rate.

But that wasn't to say the evening was running smoothly. Tom Branson – the man who had evidently won young Lady Sybil's heart, and been brave enough to marry her – was being provoked into quite a tirade on Home Rule for Ireland. And judging by the other guests' expressions, Anthony guessed that they knew little more about the Black-and-Tans than that they were British forces (and therefore presumably infallible) – they probably hadn't read of the shell-shocked men who'd been sent straight from the hell of Flanders to Dublin and Wicklow… At any rate, it was not going down well – and Mr Branson was not keeping his temper. It wasn't until he noticed Larry Grey's smirk that Anthony pieced it all together; the movement in the corner of his eye that had dragged his attention away from Edith, before they'd gone in for dinner…

Anthony could not pretend to feel indifferent about taking that callous young man down a peg – it was immensely satisfying. And then there was the way Lady Edith walked him out to his car, praising him for speaking up. There was that swelling in his chest again – although he did try not to look too excessively pleased with himself.

But what man _wouldn't_ feel a little proud, with such a very lovely woman beaming up at him? Moonlight glinting on the jewels at her throat… Anthony let himself admire the glow of her skin in the half-light, for those few minutes – he couldn't help himself. And by God, she wasn't making it any easier for him.

"I do hope we'll be seeing more of you, once the wedding's over…"  
This was his moment; his chance to claim some other obligation, to pretend that he would be on holiday in Nice for the next several years. But those dark eyes kept searching his.  
"Wouldn't you like that?"  
And when her voice was so tentative and hopeful, it was quite impossible to do anything but tell the truth. He couldn't bear to let her think she wasn't wanted. Wanted very much.  
"Oh, I should like that very much. Much more than I probably ought to."

Oh, perhaps making a fool of himself over this girl might be worth it, if he could just hear that breathless laugh again…

"Edith, let Sir Anthony go."  
Anthony was just considering that Lord Grantham must be the only one that evening who hadn't let the cocktails go to his head (who still had a grip on propriety) when suddenly and in very quick succession he felt Lady Edith's gloved hand on his arm…

And her warm, soft lips pressed to his cheek.

For just a second, as he turned, she was so very close. He caught the scent of her perfume in the light air, heard her breath hitch in a gasp at her own daring, met those startling eyes with an astounded stare of his own. And then she was hurrying away, a bewitching little smile on those lips. Those lips…

Anthony's heart pounded.

How – how in God's name was he supposed to resist her?

_But I must_, he insisted to himself, later, as he climbed Locksley's stairs. _I must.  
When Larry Grey is the only alternative, it's small wonder the girl's head was turned by the most basic demonstration of moral fibre. _

Anthony scoffed, thrusting his good hand into his pocket – and found against his palm the small grey glove that he'd forgotten he even possessed, for those hours. He began to play with the delicate fingers, and heaved an abrupt sigh.

_You are perfectly hopeless, man. But for her sake – for Edith – desist. It's more than you deserve that she kissed you._

_But, the way she kissed you…_

* * *

**A/N: **If this was excessively sappy...well, blame all the Sinatra love songs I've had on repeat.

Many thanks for your kind reviews, and stay tuned!


	4. Chapter 3

**_AUTHOR'S NOTE_**_**:** Thanks as always for the lovely reviews - you really are too kind! _

_I come bearing the next chapter - and again, I am taking my time here, but I hope you think it's worthwhile. In a few chapters' time you can expect a few surprises...well, some non-canon happenings, at least...but for now, have some detailed revision!_

_(Thanks as always to WisdomState, for her sweet encouragement.)_

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE**

Things did not improve. That is, it did not suddenly become easier for Anthony to prevent himself thinking about Lady Edith Crawley – in fact, it got more difficult. There was the wedding, for Mary and Matthew; he could hardly have escaped that grand occasion even if he'd really wanted to, considering that preparations had taken over the whole village. More than that – however prudent he might _wish _to be, he found he could not banish the memory of Lady Edith smiling at him, asking him to join them at the wedding. Lady Edith in the moonlight by his car…

So he went along, as dapper as still possible in his silk cravat – and when she (fresh-faced and beautiful) took his arm to guide him into the pew behind hers, he could do little more than obey – cursing himself all the while. He only hoped that Lady Alanham wasn't somewhere in a pew nearby – if one of those ladies noticed Lady Edith's obvious favouring of him, he'd never hear the end of it… Anthony had thought (half-hoped) that his presence might have slipped under the radar, the wedding being such a big affair – but apparently that was not to be.

No – there he was again, sitting a few feet from Edith Crawley, helplessly admiring the elegant arch of her neck. It seemed to be the permanent state of things – which, he supposed, was safer than anything actually _happening_ between them – but it was also distinctly torturous. For her as well, he wondered? _For God's sake, no, don't think on it._

_Oh yes,_ he thought wryly, as the wedding march began. _Weddings can be a reminder of one's loneliness, alright._

* * *

But Lady Edith didn't seem about to _let_ him be lonely – not for more than a week or so – and that posed its own, more torturous problems. To have her dropping round so often – with an invitation to dinner, or an enquiry about some neighbour, or a request to make use of his library because it was much better furnished in rare old books than was Lord Grantham's – made it so very difficult not to…think about her more than he should. Made it difficult not to anticipate her little visits, and spend much of the time only half-reading the newspaper, one eye on the library window.

Anthony knew full well that his behaviour was ridiculous – and more than that, it was wrong. Lady Edith must be terribly lonely herself (or bored at the least), to be seeking out _his_ dull company – and he would be a cad to take advantage of the fact.

Which was why, when she stopped by Locksley the very day after the new Mr. and Lady Crawley had returned from honeymoon in Cannes, and requested that he join them all for dinner, Anthony was resolute. (Well, as resolute as he ever managed to be during the times that dear girl fixed him with her warm, expectant gaze.)

And for once, Edith didn't seem to take his reluctance as a challenge. In fact, her expression clouded so much that he couldn't help but enquire.

"I know you don't _mean_ to hurt me, but…"  
Her tone was much more fragile then than he had ever heard it – and he could barely stand the thought of causing her any pain.  
"Of course I don't – that's the last thing I'd ever wish to do."  
She shook her head in exasperation. "Then why do you shove me away?"

Anthony couldn't help but be relieved at the return of her straightforward logic, her characteristic honesty. That was the Edith he knew…  
"I don't want to," he tried to assure her. "Not at all."  
_In fact, I'd very much like to…well…  
_He faltered for a second. "But-"  
And Edith was having none of it. "If you're going to talk about your wretched arm again, I won't listen."

He tried not be endeared by her persistence. He really did. But even so, he couldn't keep the warmth from his tone. Didn't she see that he only wanted the best for her – the very best? _Because_ he cared about her so?

"It's not just my arm!" he insisted, even as she settled on his sofa quite as though she meant to stay. "I'm too old for you. You need a young chap, with his life ahead of him."  
"But your life's ahead of you," Edith returned, much more charmingly insistent than was good for his resolve. It was out of desperation that Anthony plucked a title from his bookshelf; examining the cover so as to avoid examining her lovely face. But his words betrayed him.

"Oh my dear," he sighed, wearily – the endearment escaping his lips before he had quite realised he'd spoken aloud – "if only you knew how much I'd like to believe that."

And, of course, she seized upon it – faintly formidable as she was that afternoon. He'd only let his guard down for a _moment_…

"Then it's settled," came her assertion, as he knew it would. "You're not going to push me away any more – and you _are_ coming for dinner tonight. That's all there is to it."

Backed against the bookcase, and apparently quite trapped in his own library, Anthony felt his mouth twist into a helpless sort of smile – though inside he still felt guilty and quite wretched. What was a man to do, in the face of such an unflappable creature? He sighed heavily, turning away to return the book to its shelf.

"Very well then, I shall come – if you insist. But I'm sure I shall be in the way."  
He glanced over his shoulder, to see Edith's expression relax at last, and then brighten.  
"Nonsense – it'll be a pleasure."  
She stood then, and for a moment Anthony thought he was about to be left in peace – but as she passed him, the lady paused to examine the bookshelf.

"Are these alphabetized?" Edith enquired lightly, a smile in her voice. The gentleman blinked.  
"Err, yes, actually. Well, within sections. English novels on this shelf, the Romans over there…Horace and suchlike."  
Anthony knew he was rambling – but then, he did have the rather disconcerting feeling that Lady Edith Crawley could read him almost as well as she could his bookcase.  
"Mm," the lady nodded, "I thought so."  
There was a smile about her lips that Anthony suspected had very little to do with literature of any sort.  
"Papa lets his poetry collection gather dust – it's a terrible waste – and as for the Classics I'm sure they'd quite rot away if I didn't reread them every year or so."  
This time Anthony's smile was genuine – he couldn't help it. What a fascinating thing she was…

"Ah well," she sighed breezily, "I had best be off. I'll see you this evening?"  
"You shall," the gentleman confirmed, straightening his tie needlessly under her gaze.  
"Excellent," said Lady Edith, with a smile that was suddenly brilliant – and Anthony despaired at his own susceptibility to her charm.

_You are quite, quite done for, you realise?_

_And so is she, in consequence. Damn your weakness, man…_

* * *

_Damn, __damn__ your weakness, _he thought, as Robert Crawley preceded him out of Downton's half-lit library. _See how awkward you've let things become?_

It would have been embarrassing enough, to be taken side by a lady's father and warned away, if Lord Grantham hadn't been perfectly in the right. Anthony had known it all along – but he'd let himself be half-deluded by all that charming insistence. And now Lady Edith might well be hurt, properly – for all his assurance that he would never do so.

Oh, it was wretched. _He_ was wretched. And the humiliation wasn't even the worst of it.

Anthony had been home about an hour, pacing his study in despair, when he finally convinced himself to sit down with pen and paper. He had difficulty enough with the very first words. He could write well enough now with his left hand – quite neatly, though it did take longer – and this was certainly not the kind of letter that could be dictated to a footman. No, the issue was with finding the right words.

_Dear Lady Edith, _

_I am writing to inform you – and I am sorry to do so – that I will be unable to attend any further dinners at Downton. Your father has expressed to me certain concerns about our friendship – concerns which I understand and must respect. I should not have allowed things to go even so far as they did – the fault is mine, and I only hope (though I do not expect) that you might forgive me._

_Please understand and forgive my asking that you do not call by Locksley anymore – there are many more charming places for a lady to drive to, and you are so very competent now, after all._

_I will miss your company – I cannot pretend otherwise. But please understand that I only have your best interests at heart (as, of course, does your father)._

_May God bless you always,_

_Anthony Strallan_

Anthony dropped his pen to the desk and his head to his viable hand, heaving a hopeless sigh. No matter how long he turned the meagre words over in his mind, there was no way to improve them. Not at his present degree of eloquence, at any rate. He almost smirked then, to realize that he was _always_ losing his tongue around Edith, even when she wasn't in the room – except that he felt physically incapable of smiling just now.

_Oh, my dear…_

* * *

Edith somehow could not put the letter down. It was still tucked into the pocket of her cardigan in the late afternoon – and there it would stay, until she received another. Another letter, telling her that he _would_ come to the dinner, after all – that he had received her father's correspondence, and didn't hold any grudges, and would be delighted to join them all at Downton next week. Or perhaps he would write to Papa…just as long as he wrote at all.  
Edith wasn't entirely sure what she'd do if he didn't.

She had been so sure…

Of course, Anthony was a perfect gentleman (which was more than she had been, practically hounding the poor man), but despite his restraint Edith had really thought there'd been something beneath… Something of their old romance.

"_Their friendship"_, he'd called it. Oh, but wasn't it more than that, though? Friendship was a wonderful thing, of course, and she knew she had the most loyal of friends in Sir Anthony…but, in Edith's book, someone who could set your pulse racing with the smallest crooked smile was something rather more than just a 'friend'. Heaven knew she wanted to be _so_ much more to him…

The thing about…love (yes, she could call it that, that was the only word for it) was that it was so much…_longer _than she would have guessed from all the novels. It wasn't neatly divided into scenes that you could pick up or conveniently leave on your bureau when it was tea time. There were simply _days_ of it – hour after hour of bittersweet aches and inexplicable blushes and disobedient wandering thoughts. And Mary knew, she was quite sure – Edith hadn't been nearly so sharp a verbal jouster as usual these past weeks, and that could not go unnoticed to her sister. Mary hadn't really taken advantage of the fact, however, which was strange – perhaps married life was keeping her quite busy enough.

Shrugging off her cosy cardigan to change for the evening – and trying to appear composed for the sake of Anna, who would no doubt soon appear – Edith managed a little smile at the thought of her rambunctious American grandmother. What a dear she was – so perceptive, so understanding.

_More so than the family who see me every day. Or don't see me, more to the point._

But perhaps, if she could trust her father to write Anthony a sufficiently apologetic letter, she might not lose the one man who had never failed to see her – however young and silly she had been.

_Oh, __please__…_

* * *

Anthony had almost despaired when Sampson entered his library with two letters, both bearing the Grantham crest.

_Please Edith, just let me… It's not her hand._

It was from her father. Lord Grantham was writing to Anthony to request that he _should _join them for the dinner next week. To explain that Lady Edith had requested his attendance "most particularly", and that the Crawleys would be pleased to see him Friday night. That he would understand if Sir Anthony could not attend, but that he was asking nonetheless.

A full three seconds passed before a feeling warm and unsolicited burst through Anthony's chest, making it necessary to sit down.

_She wants me. That much._

_She must have spoken with her father. Argued, even._

_For…me?_

He could hardly turn to the second letter quick enough – thankfully Sampson had unsealed both already, so it was manageable with the one hand – and when he unfolded the paper his eyes widened further still. It was in Edith's hand…but it was so brief.

_Dear Sir Anthony,_

_I hope you will have received my father's letter. I also hope, very much, that you will join us for dinner on Friday._

_Yours hopefully,_

_Lady Edith_

And that was it. No frustration on her part, no scolding, no insistence. Just…hope.

And Anthony Strallan found himself, once again, torn between wracking guilt and a pervasive, overwhelming happiness.

Oh, she was a stronger creature than he – she had done the fighting for them. She had decided there was going to _be_ a 'them', in fact. He had only longed for it…

_What sort of man leaves the battles to his sweetheart? Ugh, I don't deserve her…_

_But I want her. And she wants me, apparently._

Shaking his head in disbelief, Anthony pocketed the lady's letter carefully, and strolled into the hallway, to the telephone.

"Good afternoon – I'd like to place a call to a Mrs. Margaret Chetwood, please."

* * *

The very next morning, Anthony was sitting down to tea with his sister. Margaret had always been a perceptive thing – he had barely been on the telephone to her for a minute before she had surmised that something was the matter. (To be fair, he _had_ begun about three sentences at once and been unable to satisfactorily finish any of them…) So off he went the next day, to speak with the one person in the world with whom he could be entirely candid. Well, nearly.

"So what you're saying," said the woman stirring an excessive quantity of sugar into his tea, "is that Lady Edith – the rather lovely girl you had your eye on years ago – is expressing interest in you (strong interest, by the sound of things)…and this is somehow a _problem_?"  
Anthony flushed a little at the rather simplistic summation of affairs.  
"Well…yes. It's not that she isn't…"  
As he failed to finish yet another sentence, Margaret smiled shrewdly into her teacup.

"But her family don't approve – and I'm not sure_ I_ approve. I mean, look at me, Margie – I'm an old man with a useless arm, and it's not even as though my fortune is superior to the Crawleys. Edith – Lady Edith – doesn't stand to gain anything."  
"Doesn't she?" his sister raised an eyebrow, looking distinctly unconvinced. "And I do wish you'd stop calling yourself an 'old man' – for one thing, it implies that _I_ must be a positively decrepit old woman, and I'm trying to avoid admitting that for just as long as possible."  
Anthony managed a genuine chuckle at that. "You're looking prettier than ever, dearest Margaret."  
"And for another thing," his sister continued, unflagging, "you're actually looking really rather good. Or you would if you'd stop frowning in disbelief."

Anthony sighed, finally taking a sip of the tea which was on its way to going cold.  
"But you must see my point – and Lord Grantham's?"  
Margaret fingered her teacup daintily, and looked up at him again.  
"One would presume a lady of…twenty-something…and an intelligent one, at that, would know her own mind on this sort of matter."  
"I don't doubt her _intelligence_, Margie – she gives me daily proof – but I can't let what must be an oversight on her part – some desperation out of loneliness – lead her to a choice she'd ultimately regret. I couldn't take advantage that way. Which is why I really mustn't go along to this next week's dinner."

His sister shook her head, reaching for the plate of muffins between them.  
"You were always much too selfless, you know, Anthony. Remember when you came home from Archie Mathers' birthday party with a slice of cake, and then refused point-blank to eat it because I'd had the mumps and couldn't share any? Such lovely cake, too, and it went to waste, for no good reason."

Wondering whether Margie had really been the best person to come to for sober advice – and increasingly desperate to maintain a sceptical distance from the conversation – Anthony raised an eyebrow, assuming a dry, sarcastic drawl that only his sister ever heard.  
"Are you _really_ comparing Lady Edith Crawley to a raspberry sponge?"  
"More or less," his sister smiled teasingly, completely undeterred. "Though I have my suspicions she's actually more of an Apple Charlotte – sweet, and sharp, and your absolute favourite."  
"Will you stop it, woman?" snapped Anthony, colouring quite obviously.  
Margaret laughed fondly, and put a sympathetic hand to his arm.

"I'm sorry, brother dear. But if you came to me hoping to be talked out of going to this dinner on Friday, I'm afraid you're out of luck. I think you _should_ go – and if Lady Edith really cares for you (and 'if' you really care for her) then it should be obvious – so long as you don't close your eyes and shut your ears. Allow yourself to take a risk for once, dear boy. After all, faint heart never won fair lady."

Anthony set down his teacup quite despairingly, feeling his resolve begin to falter. He tried once more though, if half-heartedly. "But…she's not mine to win!"  
"On the contrary, Anthony – it sounds to me as though you've already won her, but are refusing to claim your prize. Don't be a fool."

The gentleman sighed, running a hand through his hair in the hapless way Margie remembered so fondly from childhood. "Easier said than done."

His sister only smiled, and took a sip of her tea. A few seconds passed before she added, "Do let me know how the dinner goes, won't you?"


	5. Chapter 4

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Apologies for the wait! Here is the next chapter - that fateful dinner - and because it's such a central event I've gone into some detail (because really, aside from those few gorgeous moments, we didn't see nearly enough of what happened between Edith & Anthony that night!) I hope you enjoy it - though you might want to brew up some bitter tea, because this is sugary as all hell! :P_

_Thanks, as always, to WisdomState: without whose encouragement this chapter would have been fretted over for much too long!_

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Anna Bates smiled softly, and breathed a gentle sigh as she tidied away the curling iron. A naturally empathetic sort of person, she had always been prone to picking up people's moods. Decent people, that was. And if tonight didn't go well for Lady Edith…well, it wouldn't be for any lack of effort on her part.

_Though surely if the gentleman loves her, he should love her whatever her hair's like…_

The housemaid shook her head, and smiled.

_Well, all the same, milady…best of luck._

* * *

Anthony Strallan could not remember ever being so nervous. Not before his exams at Eton, not before his first London ball, not even before his wedding so many years ago – he had known, in each of _those_ cases, exactly what was expected of him – and had been quietly confident in his capacity to fulfil those expectations. But tonight – at what, to all intents and purposes, would appear to be a perfectly routine dinner party – he was in fact walking some impossibly-thin line: between Edith's intentions and the Crawleys', between hope and reservation, between his fears and his desires. And he hardly knew what to expect.

_Only time will tell, I suppose._

Downton loomed tall – taller than Locksley – and Anthony took a deep breath to steel himself as he passed through the front doors. Carson was standing at post in the hall, to direct the guests into the main rooms, though Anthony knew the way quite well enough by now. Endeavouring to ignore the knot in his stomach, the gentleman made for the well-lit doorway, his eyes scanning the far reaches of the room for a familiar head of strawberry blonde curls.

He had not been prepared to find her just inside the door, greeting each guest as they entered.

Looking _absolutely beautiful_.

His involuntary gasp, and the deep breath which followed, only served to partly-quell the panic (or was it just crippling adoration?) rising within him. Nervous as he'd been, Anthony didn't feel he'd really grasped until this moment just how much was at stake, this evening. Or, indeed, quite how much he…_loved her_. This marvellous young woman; who could debate with him, and convince her father, and light an entire room with her smile…

A smile which, a few seconds later, shifted from Sir Walton to himself – and instantly brightened tenfold. God, but she was beautiful.

"Lady Edith…" he managed, barely cognisant of the fact that a small cluster of guests was building up behind him.  
"Sir Anthony," she replied – distinctly, sweetly breathless – placing her gloved hand formally in his. "How lovely to see you."  
"And you," he returned, suddenly eager that she not be under any misapprehension as to his pleasure in seeing her (though he needn't have worried).

Finally realising the need to clear the doorway, Anthony released her hand, and – slightly flushed – made his way toward a mantelpiece, to take up his now-habitual 'vase-admiring'. Edith, meanwhile, was obliged to turn from him to the next guest – a Lady Hamilton, as it happened – and greeted her with a smile so effervescent that the poor woman wasn't immediately sure how to respond.

Barely a few minutes passed before Edith excused herself from her duties – handing over to an especially-regal Lady Mary – and immediately joined Anthony on the outskirts of the room.

"Hello," she began, rather shyly: a greeting which he found he could only echo.  
"You really came," she observed, and the gentleman nodded; seemingly unable to keep the corners of his mouth from turning foolishly upward.  
"I did. And I'm glad."  
Edith glowed even brighter. And then, because he was bound to embarrass himself if he stared into those dark eyes for a second more than he had already, Anthony turned to glance about the room.  
"It's quite a party."  
"Indeed it is," the lady replied – at which point it became possible, for propriety's sake, to pretend that this was an evening like any other.

This was not like any evening that Anthony had ever known. Yes, people were mingling as usual in the soft light of beaded lamps, and he was engaged in animated conversation with a neighbour…but that particular neighbour was the dearest, loveliest creature in the world, and it was now completely impossible to ignore the fact. How could he – how _could_ he be anything but enchanted – when Edith stood there so close to him, chatting and smiling and laughing, in the prettiest frock he'd ever seen? (It was his favourite, he decided – unable to care that he probably shouldn't _have_ a favourite.)

As the evening progressed, Anthony felt himself slipping further and further into complete, unrepentant adoration – and suddenly remembered that making Edith Crawley laugh was one of his favourite things in the world.

"…but he's now a Fellow at Jesus College – back at Cambridge, where we met," the gentleman continued. "Not the sort of thing I'd be cut out for, by any stretch. He tells me they've been having some bother with prank telephone callers, in recent years."  
"Oh?"  
"Apparently, last Christmas morning the poor old porter answered the phone, and some chap asked him 'Is that Jesus?' – and when the porter said yes, he was regaled with a chorus of 'Happy Birthday to You'."

He could not have hoped for a more charming response – Edith laughed quite helplessly, ducking her head and raising one gloved hand to stifle her giggles. Anthony felt that now-familiar swelling in his chest – and tonight, he relished it. The lady sighed laughingly, shaking her head at him.  
"Well," Edith managed, her tone brimming with warmth, "I suppose a little tomfoolery is small price to pay for technological advancement."  
"Quite," Anthony nodded, his smile never leaving her. God, he felt quite drunk with the way she was looking at him. "Anyway, a little mischief is traditional at Christmas – the Lords of Misrule, and all of that."  
"Of course," the lady smiled – and Anthony wondered faintly whether his heart might burst.

It transpired that the dinner wasn't going quite as planned – though Anthony and Edith were among the last to notice, absorbed as they were in each other.

"…but all the same, if you'd like to come through…"  
Lady Grantham was smiling apologetically.  
"At last," muttered someone nearby – though by Anthony's reckoning the time had flown. He turned back to the young lady beside him, smiled gallantly, and offered her his arm – a formal gesture that was sweetly reminiscent of their brief courtship six years ago. He wondered whether she might be thinking the same thing; and by the little smile about her lips, he suspected that she might. Edith slipped her gloved arm through his, and together they adjourned to the dining room.

That was the extent of the evening's formality, however. Due to some kitchen conundrum, the guests were obliged to pile their plates from a selection of cold meat, breads and fruit, and find a seat anywhere they pleased. It was a little surprising, of course, but the conviviality was infectious (spurred on by that rather vibrant Mrs. Levison) and Anthony was inclined to think that a dinner of dry bread couldn't have dampened his mood. He and Edith bumped into Lord and Lady Alanham in the line, and soon the four of them were finding a spot to sit together.

Anthony stood back to let the ladies have the best choice of what seats were available; but Edith (that wonderful, perceptive girl) must have anticipated that he would need a chair, in order to balance a plate on his knee and eat with one hand, for she settled herself gracefully down at Lady's Alanham's feet. Lord Alanham pulled his chair around to make a circle – and soon they were quite the merriest little party.

"You know," said Lord Alanham, balancing a piece of cold chicken on some bread, "I haven't eaten this way since I was last on the Continent. It's very refreshing. Don't you remember, my dear, lounging on that terrace in the South of France?"  
"Oh, yes," the older woman smiled. "Just beautiful…all that sun, and _the cuisine_! Oh, my dear," she shook her head at Edith, as though unable to quite articulate it. "You really must get there at some stage yourself – only, bring someone who's good with directions. Honestly, in Rome we very nearly…"

From the way Edith laughed at Lady Alanham's story, Anthony gathered they must've had quite a time of it – though he couldn't really pay attention to a lengthy narrative. He couldn't stop glancing at Edith; as her head fell back in laughter, as she twirled her fork in one hand, as she popped a grape into her mouth in as ladylike a way as possible. He found himself imagining how she would look in the Mediterranean sun; reading under a parasol, or sipping wine on a terrace… He found himself imagining being the one next to her; the one she would turn to, to point out each new sight… And, though Anthony could barely believe it even now, perhaps the prospect really _wasn't_ so impossible.

What if he really allowed himself to marry Edith Crawley?

He quickly looked down at his plate.

But it seemed that fate – or, at least, the women of Grantham house – were conspiring against any attempt at sober restraint. Dinner had scarcely finished before Mrs. Levison had someone at the piano and everyone else singing, a popular love song from a few years back – as if there were anything but romance in Anthony's head as it was. And when Edith raised her voice to join the others, soft and sweet…well, he was done for.

It might've been the smile in her voice that he could hear even while she faced the piano, or the way the lamplight caught the smooth skin of her shoulders…but sometime in those few minutes, Anthony gave in completely.

_Let me call you sweetheart, I'm in love with you  
Let me hear you whisper that you love me too…_

The song ended to a round of applause, and Edith turned, leaning closer conspiratorially.  
"Do you think we might get another song out of her?" she wondered, eyes still on her vivacious American grandmother. Anthony couldn't help himself: he leaned a little closer.  
"Careful now, sweetheart," he murmured by her ear. "Think of Lady Violet's constitution."

They were so close that he heard her breath catch – then Edith's eyes darted to meet his, as though she were sure she must have misheard. But Anthony held her gaze honestly – and a breathless smile spread across the lady's face. She didn't seem to know quite where to look. In that moment, Edith Crawley was _beyond_ enchanting.

"Now then-"  
They started, heads turning to find Lord Grantham on his feet. Anthony felt quite exactly as though he'd been caught with his hand in the sweet tin, and could only hope that their little exchange had gone unnoticed. But Robert's attentions seemed to be elsewhere.

"If the gentlemen would like to stay on for a few minutes and help themselves to a drink, why don't the ladies go through?"  
"To where?" asked Martha Levison, rather pointedly.  
"Well, yes, I know it's all been a bit all over the place," the Earl forced a chuckle, "but shall we say the dining room, to end the evening in? A little formality wouldn't go astray…"  
His mother-in-law didn't look convinced; but with soft laughter and fond farewells, the ladies readied themselves to adjourn to the dining room.

Anthony turned back to the lady by his side: feeling a sort of desperation at having her taken away at just exactly the moment there were things to be said between them. A similar reluctance was evident on Edith's face – and he was rather flattered by it, to be honest.  
"I'll see you through in the dining room," he assured her, his mouth twisting into an apologetic little smile. The young woman nodded; apparently having regained her equilibrium, though a faint blush lingered in her cheeks.  
"I'll be waiting," she replied, barely above a whisper, and sauntered off to join the other ladies – a tantalising vision that was only ruined by Lord Grantham shutting the door behind them.

* * *

Edith was the last out of the door – but her American grandmother had not been far ahead of her. The girl was so distracted that she hardly noticed she was in company until Mrs. Levison had sidled up alongside her, linking their arms affectionately.

"Edith dear – is the evening going as you'd hoped? It certainly looks like it to me…"  
Under her grandmother's perceptive gaze, the young woman couldn't long hide everything she was feeling. Edith's face broke into an immoderate smile.  
"Yes – I really believe it is." She squeezed the older lady's hand. "Thank you, Grandmamma, _ever_ so much…"  
Martha patted her hand gently. "Oh, nothing you couldn't have done yourself, darling. I just nudged things along a bit. However, I will expect a full debrief later." She gave Edith a conspiratorial wink. "Have fun."

Watching her grandmother sail off, Edith shook her head in wonder – at her grandmother, at herself, at the evening in general.  
_He came – of his own volition, even after all that awkwardness from Papa. And he's so…attentive, this evening. More than attentive, _she amended, thrilling at the memory of his softly-murmured endearment.

_Tonight is…perfect._

* * *

The next few minutes were uncomfortable ones, for Anthony. He felt the anxieties of the day begin to seep back – Edith's absence and Lord Grantham's decided presence combining to make the burgeoning hope of the past hour seem…distant, at best. Would Robert Crawley really allow his daughter to marry an aging cripple? Would the family make another attempt at trying to convince Edith out of it? And most importantly – would they be right in doing so? If Edith was in anything like the state he was this evening, then the neither of them could trust their judgement. Oh, but she had been so very…

Anthony was barely sure if the feeling in his stomach was nervous excitement or deep trepidation – all he knew was that it made it damnably difficult to talk sport over brandy.

But finally, one of the gentlemen stood up and stretched, and suggested that they all join the ladies. It was a considerable effort for Anthony not to leap up immediately; he needed to see Edith, to have some proof that the warm glances of the past hour hadn't somehow all been in his mind.

When he entered the dining room however, Edith was deep in conversation with the younger Lady Grey – her eyes flickered towards him as the gentlemen entered, and she stole him a little smile, but didn't seem able to extricate herself from the conversation just yet. Anthony sighed, and accepted another glass from the footman.

Now in the same room again, it was clearer than ever that he was drawn to that girl with every fibre of his being…a feeling that might just be mutual. So surely…surely they could…

"Ah, Sir Anthony!"  
He very nearly cringed.  
"How long it's been…"  
What he said was, "Why, hello Lady Mandeville".  
What he was thinking was, _Why now? Why?!  
_All he wanted to do – what he_ needed_ to do – was to talk to Edith. He felt barely capable of small talk, just at the minute. Thankfully, they had scarcely got beyond talk of the splendid weather they'd been having lately, when the Crawleys' middle daughter approached. Anthony felt his pulse quicken.

"Sir Anthony," she smiled, the picture of polite interest, "Papa mentioned that you might be able to explain something to me – something I read in the papers – I know you've such an interest in European politics. Please excuse the interruption, Lady Mandeville. Oh, and do try some of those truffles, while they're left – I think they're the nicest thing that's been on offer all evening".

As Lady Mandeville tottered off towards the table, Anthony turned back to the beautiful woman now regarding him warmly.  
"Err, what was that about Europe?"  
"Nothing, silly." Her lips curved into a smile, and Anthony had never felt so warmed by an insult. "I just wanted to get you to myself."  
"Ah," the gentleman managed, clearing his throat a little.

"I hope Papa's conversation wasn't too tiresome…"  
She looked faintly apprehensive, as though silently anticipating that Lord Grantham might have had a word with her guest; and Anthony shook his head to reassure her.  
"Oh, no, just the usual – shooting and local politics, that sort of thing. Actually," he began, even as some self-preserving voice inside screamed for him not to continue, "I was rather hoping to have a word with you."

And she looked so hopeful, then. So beautiful. He couldn't have stopped himself if he'd really tried – there was candlelight on her hair, for God's sake.  
"Oh?"  
"I, err, I wanted to apologise, for the mess I've made of things, these past weeks."  
The lady shook her head. "Anthony, please-"  
She had dropped his title, the both of them realised – but it didn't feel at all out of place. It felt incredibly (terrifyingly) natural. Anthony gripped his brandy glass a little tighter, to keep from reaching for her hand.  
"Edith," he returned, lowering his voice for privacy's sake, "listen to me. I have made a terrible mess of things…and you've been the one to right it. I don't deserve so much, but I…" He paused, steeled himself. "I can only ask. Would you…_consider_…doing me the honour of becoming my wife?"

He had thought he'd already seen her at her loveliest. He had been wrong.

The most tender, tremulous smile broke across Edith's face; her eyes shining, breath quickening. "Yes," she whispered, though it came out as something between a laugh and sob. "Yes I'll marry you, not yes I'll consider it," the girl clarified laughingly, raising a gloved hand to her mouth. Anthony stared, scarcely able to believe the evidence before him.  
"You will?" he managed.  
"Of course," replied Edith, smiling up at him with an almost incredulous expression. "You must've known my answer…I haven't exactly been subtle." She offered an apologetic, blushing smile then.  
"You've been enchanting," he corrected her, testing his new ability to say aloud what could only run through his brain, beforehand. "And I would never dare presume."

It was suddenly necessary to draw a deep breath – as the full force of what had just passed hit him in a somewhat delayed reaction.  
"God, will you really? I, err, I don't have a ring, I'm sorry – I hadn't really intended to ask you this evening…"  
Edith shook her head, beaming, evidently flattered by the thought that she could inspire a spontaneous proposal. "That doesn't matter in the least…I think I've gained quite enough for one evening."

Anthony looked down at his feet and up again, wondering that she really thought him a prize. Could she be thinking straight? He had to be sure that she knew what she was undertaking.  
"And are you absolutely sure," he asked her, unable to keep the tenderness from his voice even as he was aiming for pragmatism, "you won't wake up in ten years' time, and wonder why you're tied to this crippled old codger?"

But, true to form, Edith wouldn't listen to a word of it. It seemed he didn't have an option in those minutes but to let himself enjoy the bliss of returned affection – and then there was the thrill of her lips against his cheek. Her perfume, as she leaned so close…

Even the momentary fear evoked by her suggestion of announcing their engagement to the family was soon dispelled by the tender way she smiled at him. So tender, in fact, that Anthony was going to have to distract himself somehow, or he just knew he'd end up kissing her in front of all and sundry.

"Well," he sighed, turning to deposit his brandy glass on a nearby table, "I suppose I must learn to brook being happier than I deserve." His darling Edith raised a sceptical eyebrow.  
"That line is Austen's – but I'll let you away with it just this once."  
Anthony shook his head laughingly, and was rather startled to see her turning to move.  
"Come on," the lady urged, "why don't we 'explore Downton Abbey', like Grandmamma suggested? I don't think I could stand to be forced into small talk just now. Have you ever really seen our library?"

And because staying near Edith Crawley was the most important thing in the world, Anthony followed her through Downton's rooms, where guests were scattered about, to the half-lit library. He tried not to think of the last time he'd stood there – apologising to Lord Grantham while his own hopes were dashed so terribly. But things were different now, weren't they?

"As you can see, we've quite a collection," Edith was saying, running a hand across the neatly-shelved spines. "Though, between you and me, I think Locksley has a much better range as far as literature is concerned. A lot of this is horribly dry."  
She smiled at him – each silently appreciating that Locksley's library would now be hers, someday soon. Anthony admired the imposing bookshelf, because his other option was to admire the woman at his elbow – and some self-indulgent part of him was all too aware of how alone they were at present. He mustn't get ahead of himself.

"Rather impressive, all the same. Such enormous volumes. But are you sure your father won't mind our looking?"  
"Oh, he won't mind. He'll be busy entertaining someone. Ooh, have a look at this one-"  
With some effort, Edith pulled a hefty leather-bound tome from a self above her – and oh, she did look sweet reaching up on her tiptoes like that – dusted it off, and passed it to the gentleman.  
"This was my favourite when I was fourteen – I can't count the number of times I smuggled it out of here to read at leisure." Her lips pursed into a smile, and she reached across Anthony to open the cover. _The Illustrated Shakespeare_, read the gold lettering.

"Aren't they beautiful?"  
She leaned closer, to gaze over his shoulder and point out particular illustrations; all rendered in ink with exquisite detail. He should find some reason to move away from her a little, he knew – but then, it didn't feel quite real anyway, to have the woman he'd loved so long beside him like this. And the warm scent of her was…

"I always wanted hair like Juliet's," Edith admitted sheepishly, her voice lowered, pointing to an ethereal Juliet with sleek, dark tresses falling down her back.  
_Not unlike Lady Mary's, actually_, Anthony thought, bemused.  
"I can't think why," he told her candidly, risking a glance across. "Your hair is beautiful."  
His honesty was rewarded with another of those gorgeous, gratified smiles – and Edith had just turned to set the book down on a table, when the light above them snapped off.

Outlined against the faint glow from the doorway stood Carson – who had evidently thought the library empty, and shut off the lights. The couple nestled behind a pillar, standing very still and rather close together, had obviously (miraculously) gone unnoticed. The butler turned, and was gone.

Edith Crawley, however, was still close by his side. As Anthony breathed out slowly, recovering from the shock and attempting to steel himself, he heard a wry little laugh from the darkness beside him.  
"Sometimes," came Edith's whisper, "I'd swear I really was invisible."

It was probably the darkness – the fact that he could only _just_ make out her form – that freed Anthony from his usual tendency to err on the side of caution.  
"Not to me," he whispered, his tone huskier than intended. "You never were."

And then his breath caught, at the feel of warm, silk-gloved fingers against his inoperative hand.

Edith had slipped her hand inside his sling.

It was, somehow, the most devastatingly intimate gesture – she might as well have slipped a hand beneath his shirt to feel his heart. His eyes met hers in the half-light, and Anthony's pulse began to hammer. It was far from proper, to be here with her like this (even if she _had_ just accepted his proposal), but Anthony had no way of extricating his hand from hers – and no way of making himself _want to_.

"Edith…"  
He hardly knew himself whether he meant it to sound warning or wanting – but it definitely came out the latter. (He was already remembering the warmth of her lips on his cheek.) The lady tilted her face upward again, those incredible eyes aglow with a longing tempered only by shyness. And she was so close. After so many years, Edith Crawley's lovely face was not two inches from his. And even that was too far.

She sighed against his lips, when they met, reaching up on her toes to bring them closer; the sweetest encouragement. It had been a long, long time since Anthony had kissed _anyone_ – let alone a woman he'd been burning for for years. Edith was soft, and warm, and sweetly eager; everything he had so guilty imagined. And her hand still rested with his in the sling.

But they would have to stop soon – _he_ would have to stop. Her sweet mouth was dangerously intoxicating. Raising his good hand to touch her cheek, Anthony broke the kiss.

A slow smile was tugging at the mouth of the woman who wanted to marry him, a charming blush to cheeks as she blinked up at him. Edith opened her mouth as though to say something, and then closed it again, with a soft giggle. Oh, he loved her.

"This has been the most romantic evening of my life," she admitted softly, sounding almost embarrassed by the fact. As though Anthony hadn't been thinking the very same thing. He was touched; he couldn't resist the urge to place a kiss on her cheekbone.

"Still, we'd, err, we'd better not hang about," Anthony managed, stepping back a little. "It wouldn't do at all to be found like this."  
"Mm – quite," the young lady agreed, without looking concerned in the slightest.  
"You'd better sneak out first," he suggested, missing the warmth of her hand as she withdrew it from his damaged one, and wishing his voice didn't so betray how much she affected him. "I'll follow in a minute or two."  
"Alright then."

And there, in the very library where he had promised to stay away from her, Anthony revelled in the way Edith Crawley paused to touch his cheek, before tiptoeing stealthily to the doorway, and re-joining the party.

Anthony stood in the darkness for two too-silent minutes, snatching the moment to begin to process the evening's events. He couldn't, he found – he was feeling much too much at once. His body still hummed with longing for Edith – then he went cold at the delayed fear of their being discovered, and the recognition that, tonight or tomorrow, he would have to face the Crawley family (who he knew were only humouring him for Edith's sake). And there, with enormous bookcases bearing down on him, Anthony began to feel overwhelmed by his own insignificance. His unworthiness.

More than anything, he felt like a Tantalus who bends his head once more and finds that the sweet water doesn't recede, that what he has longed for is actually within his reach…and can hardly comprehend, or trust it. That in itself probably made him an ungrateful wretch…but how could all of it be? This whole_ impossibly_ wonderful evening? When he was the way he was, with his arm and his age, and her father looked at him with disdain – how could none of that matter? In all of those books, a man who took what he had not earned was always punished, by men or by gods. Who was Anthony Strallan to steal a woman from under her father's nose? He was hardly a dashing young Romeo. (The complicating factor was that Lady Edith Crawley made him_ feel_ like one – dash it all!)

Of course, it was difficult to keep harsh realities in mind when he stole out of the library and found Edith again, in the foyer. It was difficult to do anything but stare like a besotted old fool. His eyes lingered on her for entirely too long as they said polite goodbyes.

Anthony spent the drive home trying not to dwell more than was appropriate on their kiss; on the warmth of her body, the scent of her hair… He failed, of course. It would seem that Anthony Strallan had no self-discipline whatsoever. He had somehow won himself an incredible fiancé – but he could never deserve her. Not like this.

* * *

**A/N: **_Do let me know what you think! The next chapter departs canon..._


	6. Chapter 5

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **My warmest thanks to everyone who has left such lovely reviews - it really is so heartening to hear what people think. And my apologies that this took a while to get to you - I'm mildly nervous, you see, because I'm now departing canon, and I very much hope this chapter won't be a disappointment to you. (Or, if it is, that the next one will fix it!)_

_Also, allow me to self-indulgently mention that, as of now, this is the longest fic I've ever posted - and it's not over yet! (Approx. 2/3 chapters to go...)_

_My thanks, as ever, to WisdomState, for her generous encouragement. _

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE**

The term 'cognitive dissonance' was not unfamiliar to Anthony Strallan: he had considered many a time, particularly as regarded politics, how possible it was to hold two contradictory ideas in one's head at once. He did not, however, know of any term that could adequately summarise what it was to _feel_ two antithetical _emotions_ at once, without either overpowering or cancelling out the other. 'Emotional dissonance', perhaps? Or was 'forbidden love' quite clear enough?

Except that his love for Edith Crawley wasn't forbidden – not exactly. Sometimes he almost wished the Crawleys _would_ forbid it – he would know exactly where he stood then, at least. If they were that direct about it, he would actually have good reason to avoid their company. (Well, at least Lord Grantham, and the Dowager Countess – the others masked their derision rather). If things were otherwise, he would feel no guilt in avoiding them – and _perhaps_ (in this fantasy he was concocting) he'd actually muster the courage to win Edith from them. But that wasn't who Anthony was, and that wasn't the way the British aristocracy worked. A façade of civility was much more impenetrable than any flat refusal – and, the way things were, Anthony felt snidely attacked one minute and guilty for thinking them capable of it the next.

But then he also felt, in the time he spent with Edith, as close to _alive_ and happy as he had felt since the days before the war. In fact, Anthony's likeness to a nervous young suitor was not limited to being intimidated by his intended's father – it appeared that he was also just as much at the mercy of passionate feeling as any fumbling seventeen year-old. And the one weakness rather exacerbated the other.

He meant to raise it with her, the subject of her family's implicit disapproval – to find some sober moment to take Edith aside and ask her if they really shouldn't consider what the Crawleys thought. But what Anthony hadn't bargained for was that, when one is engaged to the love of one's life, sober moments tend to be few and far between.

The first time he went to her with the intention of broaching the subject, one afternoon while the family were having tea on the lawn, Edith came hurrying to greet him with the happiest smile and a kiss to his cheek; and he found that he couldn't bear to spoil her mood. The next time, giving her the tour of Locksley's orchards, they got into such a discussion about fair employment and conditions for labourers and tenants, that it was time for her to go before he'd managed to bring up anything about the two of them. The third time he thought he had steeled himself for it, when Edith began talking about their honeymoon; trying to trick him into revealing clues about their itinerary by the list of luggage she'd require…and oh, that sly little smile… He just couldn't do it.

He shouldn't have been surprised, really. Anthony knew his own weakness. He had daily, and nightly, evidence of it. It was almost – almost – darkly funny: while robbing him of what little youth he'd had left by 1914, the war had also seen fit to set him back to the emotionally-overactive state of some lovesick boy. He was ridiculous.

Before the war, he'd been in command of himself. Before the war, he'd had restraint. Before the war, he would not have let himself take liberties.

He had taken Edith to dinner at the country house of his oldest friend – Archie Mathers, who he'd known since boyhood, and run about the countryside with until they'd started at Eton in the same year. The man spent most of his time in London these days, but was back in the county for a while, and was naturally eager to meet his old friend's fiancé. Archie had never been married, himself – though Anthony had always thought him the more charming of the two.

They were welcomed into a cosy dining room not dissimilar to Locksley's – although it perhaps had a slightly more cosmopolitan air, Archie being the Londoner he was. And welcomed they certainly were. The dinner was delicious and the company was excellent, but entirely without pretention. It was just the three of them – most of Archie's newer friends were up in London, after all – and to Anthony's great relief, it wasn't awkward in the slightest. Edith had been a little nervous, eager to make a good impression on someone so important to him – which was heart-warming in itself. But, of course, Archie was very much impressed – and any concerns that the young woman might be after Sir Strallan for his estate alone were quickly dispelled as soon as he saw the two of them together.

It turned out to be another of those evenings on which Anthony's chest felt tight with how much he loved that darling girl – watching her talk with Archie, so naturally, holding course on various cultural changes brought about in the wake of the war.

There sat two of the people he cared for most in the world, getting on so well. Why couldn't _every_ evening be like this?

"Oh – your drawing room is lovely," noted Edith, as they went through to end the evening by the fireplace. She eyed a particularly elegant piano, well-polished but apparently untouched.  
"Do you play?" Archie asked her, having followed her gaze.  
"Oh, a little," the young lady demurred.  
"Very well," Anthony put in, with a subtle smile; unrepentantly proud of his multi-faceted fiancé.  
"Well then, Lady Edith, would you do us the honour…?"  
Archie reiterated his request by lifting the piano lid, and shooting her the kind of winning smile that Anthony had always envied his rather dashing friend. Edith looked from one gentleman to the other – and, seeing that there would be no reprieve from her fiancé, sighed and settled herself down on the stool, stretching her pale fingers.  
"Don't say I didn't try to warn you…"

Grinning good-naturedly at the young lady as he meandered to the fireplace, Archie took a cigar box from the mantelpiece, and offered one to Anthony.  
"I must say, old chap," he said quietly, and warmly, just as Edith began to play with a little flourish, "you _have_ done well."  
_And don't I know it_, Anthony thought, watching Edith Crawley play his friend's piano.

Later, after particularly merry farewells, the two of them climbed into his car, setting off home. They were both still grinning like idiots – Archie had always known how to throw a party, Anthony reflected, even just with three people. And then there was the relief; knowing that his two best friends in the world actually got on together. Oh, and a little drop of sherry. Or two.

It was times like these that Downton seemed impossibly far away, and relatively…unimportant. He could almost forget that it, and the Crawleys, existed. Wasn't there only this car, and him, and the beautiful woman who had just nestled closer to his side than strictly necessary? What else could matter?

"You have really excellent friends," Edith observed, leaning her shoulder more heavily against his. "Not that that's surprising," she amended, a fond laugh in her voice.  
Anthony grinned.  
"I have fine taste in all things," he replied, teasingly – and, since the arm against which his fiancé was leaning was the useless one, he reached for her hand with the other. Edith sighed happily as he did so, nestling snug against him. He raised their joined hands, making a show of examining her slender fingers.  
"Such dainty little hands," he mused, his mind feeling pleasantly fogged. Edith's pleased expression was almost smug. "And so accomplished – you really do play well, you know."  
"You flatter me, Anthony," his fiancé smiled, not appearing to mind in the slightest.  
"No more than you deserve, my darling," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her silk-covered knuckles.

With the back of her hand against his jaw, the smile between them stilled – and breathing seemed to become a thing of secondary importance to feeling those lips against his own. He hadn't actually kissed her since that evening in the library – and he hadn't really intended to, but, well…she was leaning in to meet him…

And ohh, her lips parted beneath his. She was even warmer and sweeter than he'd remembered – and a little more daring, letting her fingers slide from his lapel to the broad line of his shoulders.

_Edith…_

How was he to stop kissing this girl, when he loved her so _much_? When his hand had apparently found the curve of her waist, and she felt so soft and _good_ beneath the only hand he had? When she murmured warm approval against his lips – and everything about her in that moment very nearly made him groan?

But they parted eventually to catch their breath, and Anthony – though by no means unaffected – was strong enough to lean back in his chair again, to put just enough distance between himself and that too-tempting, innocent young woman.

"Is there a piano at Locksley?" enquired Edith, somewhat huskily, with a wicked little quirk of those reddened lips. The question seemed nonsensical at first – and then Anthony laughed, even through the fog of desire that made his brain sluggish.  
"You know I'd love you without one – but yes, there is, as a matter of fact."

Edith's smile lost its slyness, softening all of a sudden.  
"I love you too," she said, very earnestly, and laid her head on his shoulder. Anthony pressed a loving kiss into her hair, let his eyes drift to the road ahead, let his mind idle – and felt guilt seep in, in waves that lapped against the fire in his chest.

Only after he'd dropped her off at Downton – after she'd disappeared inside, hidden from him by stone wall and footman – did Anthony release the futile groan that had built inside him.

It wasn't so much the passion that he regretted; Anthony _was_ a Victorian man, but a well-read man too, and he had long ago come to the conclusion that nothing so loving – no presumably-God-given natural impulse – could really be intrinsically sinful. Lovers should be discreet, and careful, and enjoy each other, he thought. What Anthony regretted was the circumstances; the fact that their situation was much too complex for things to be going so far. He _should_ have been putting some sensible distance between himself and Edith – if not actually breaking off the engagement – not letting himself get even more caught up in her.

_Why does she have to be so…_

And, more to the point…what was he going to do?

* * *

Edith didn't know what to do with herself these days – unless of course she was with Anthony, in which case just about anything would do. She had even less idea what she had _used _to do with herself; before sighing happily at the way the world looked this morning had become an option. One thing was for sure – these days, Edith Crawley was not bored or lonely in the least. She couldn't be: not with packing up her belongings, and making new acquaintances, and reading up on the latest developments in farming and employment (particularly as pertained to the girls who'd worked the land during wartime, and other issues of women's suffrage). Oh, and planning her wedding to Sir Anthony Strallan.

_My Anthony… _

Edith would have thought that, once you were sure you were going to marry a person, you wouldn't get quite the same unsteadying rush each time they walked into a room. She wouldn't have minded the loss of it, with the recompense of knowing one's affections were returned – but apparently, that wasn't even going to be an issue. Edith still felt a leap every time her fiancé appeared at the door, and his smiles were no less thrilling for knowing a little of what was behind them. They might even have been _more_ thrilling for that, come to think of it.

And it was no wonder. Anthony Strallan was – in her thoroughly-considered, only slightly biased opinion – quite, quite perfect. He was… He was piles of books left haphazard about the library. He was rough grey morning-coats that felt delicious under your hands. He was an afternoon stroll in the orchard and a lively debate by the fireplace.  
And _she_ was in over her head, well and truly.

_Edith Crawley, you are worse than the silliest schoolgirl. (And he loves you anyway)._

And, in…two evenings' time, that love would be full and final, and unfettered by propriety. Two more nights in her old pink bedroom, and then she would never again be the same Edith Crawley. She would be Lady Edith Strallan, of Locksley.

The woman shook her head, unable to wipe the grin from her face as she strolled up to Locksley's front door. She needed to see a few people in Ripon, about wedding arrangements, and had thought she'd see if Anthony might like to join her for the drive. The Crawleys were invited to Locksley that same evening, for dinner and to view the house that Edith would be entering – but she didn't think Anthony would mind seeing her in the morning as well. Edith's face lit with a private little smile as she remembered the most recent time she'd driven them through the countryside: her fiancé hadn't anticipated that she would have no fear of speed. Once he'd recovered from the shock, however, he had actually looked almost proud – the darling.

"Good morning, Sampson," said the lady cheerfully, nodding to Locksley's butler. "Is Sir Anthony about? I'm just on my way in to Ripon…"  
"I believe he's in the garden, milady," the wizened butler began, when the gentleman himself appeared from around the side of the house.

"Ah, Edith – what a pleasant surprise. Is everything well?"  
Anthony's complexion had been brightened by the morning air, and he was without coat; just shirt and waistcoat, sleeves rolled up as though he'd been inspecting the orchard – a job he'd always liked to do himself. The effect was particularly pleasing; and Edith felt that so-familiar flutter.

"Fine," she assured him, smilingly. "I was just telling Sampson that I'm heading into Ripon – just a few little wedding jobs, and the excuse to get out of the house – and I wondered if you might like to come along. If you're not busy."  
The gentleman looked at her for a moment, and then shook his head. "Nothing that can't be put off for your sake. I'll need my coat and hat, though – the breeze that gets up when you're behind the wheel!"  
Edith scoffed at his teasing, unable to hide a grin.  
"Which coat, Sir?" enquired Sampson.  
"Uhhm…the darker grey. I believe it's in the library, actually," Anthony replied, making a move for the doorway.  
"I'll get it," sang out his fiancé, stepping inside past old Sampson. "I should grab that old final draft of the guest list too, while I'm about it. It might be useful later, for cross-checking lists when we come to sending thank-yous. Is it on the table?"  
"Oh, yes. Jolly good."

Edith took a quiet pleasure in how familiar she was with Locksley House, already. The ground floor, at least – Anthony's library was almost as familiar to her as her own. And it would be hers, soon enough.

_Well, perhaps not soon __enough_, she amended, with a little laugh at herself.

Ah – there, with pen on top, lay the final guest list, written weeks ago at Downton and passed back to Anthony after a copy was sent to the printers. And hanging on one of the armchairs was Anthony's coat. The young lady gathered it into her arms, and decided it would be convenient to stow the folded list in the pocket – for the duration of their drive at least. After fumbling a little, she found the pocket and slipped the paper inside – but as she withdrew her hand, she dragged out something else, now half-falling out of the pocket. A handkerchief? _No…_

It was safe to say that Edith Crawley had _never_ been so thrilled to find a lost glove.

She remembered having lost it, sometime that chilly morning so long ago, before Mary's wedding. In fact, its partner was still on her bureau at home; a reminder that she'd need a new pair of grey gloves at some point. She had not expected to find it, months later, in Anthony Strallan's pocket.

He must have found it…in his car. And kept it. Because he loved her – he really did. Even when he'd been going to give her up, he'd held on to her glove…as a little piece of her?

Edith's cheeks were rather pink as she stood there in Locksley's library, barely hearing the car door slam outside. When had her life become so shatteringly romantic?

_Ah well_, she thought, tucking her glove back into Anthony's pocket with a sly, triumphant grin, _let him keep it. What's mine is his in two days, after all. Though I'm not sure I'll ever let him hear the end of this… You sweet, romantic man…_

Commanding herself to keep a straight face, Edith hurried out to the car, where her fiancé was waiting.

* * *

It was a new, exciting kind of nervousness Edith felt later that evening, as she and her family passed through the doors that would so soon be hers. She felt rather sorry for Locksley's cook, old Mrs. Midge – being descended on by almost all of the Crawleys, after a long period of cooking only for Sir Strallan. But Edith had every faith that things would run smoothly – and in fact, she was rather pleased to be spending one of the two remaining evenings before her wedding in the house of her husband-to-be. It would smooth the transition between her old life and her new – besides which, any time spent in Anthony's company was more than welcome.

While Sampson – who was looking especially smart, she noted with fond gratitude – greeted Lord and Lady Grantham, Edith cast a quick glance down at her dress, checking that nothing had come askew during the journey. Probably because tonight felt like such a prelude to her first dinner as Lady Strallan, and because she was admittedly rather keen to establish herself as such in the minds of her family, Edith had deliberately chosen a particularly flattering frock for this dinner; something a little more womanly, in deep green silk. (She quietly hoped that Anthony would like it as much as she did.)

And she got the impression that he liked it even _more_ – when his welcoming smile around the party stilled on her for a few seconds longer than usual, with something rather deeper than his usual glow of admiration.

After chatting a little while in the drawing room – Edith tirelessly, happily explaining to an interested Mrs. Crawley the workings of Locksley and its estate – they moved through to the dining room; where Cora, as guest of honour, was seated next to Anthony, with Edith on his other side. Since her fiancé was diligently making conversation with her mother – how good at all this he was! – Edith glanced around the table, and her gaze settled upon her eldest sister.

Mary really did look…different, somehow, now that she was married. Tonight, particularly. Of course, the change in her had been gradual – beginning, really, when Matthew went away to war. There was nothing like universal suffering to make a girl value those people whom she really loved – Edith knew that well enough herself. Even so, Mary and Matthew had been having a rough time of it recently – that much had been obvious even to Edith, floating as she was on cloud nine – but now that Matthew had come to the estate's rescue, it appeared that all was well again.

It was a strange, refreshing, almost out-of-body experience for Edith Crawley to look at her elder sister, who was sitting there bathed in the glow of Matthew's adoration, without feeling the slightest twinge of envy. Because she had no reason to envy Mary, anymore.

Was that what _she_ looked like, she wondered, when Anthony complimented her, or took her hand? How would _they_ look together, she and her husband, when they were as free as Mary and Matthew to express their adoration?

* * *

Anthony sighed into his napkin, as the dinner things were cleared away. The evening was at least running relatively smoothly, thank God. He would have to give Mrs. Midge a bonus – the main course had been delicious. And conveniently, the Crawleys would have been in no place to judge even if it hadn't; considering the conundrum that their last dinner party had been. But no, Anthony had no reason to be ashamed of Locksley.

Himself, however…

Oh God, what was he supposed to do? Here he was, entertaining a tableful of people who – despite thinking him an inadequate candidate for their daughter's hand – were nonetheless his prospective in-laws. Here he was, making small talk with older Crawleys who did not consider him an equal to their authority, and younger Crawleys who surely looked on him as an old man, in the same vein as their fathers. (The same fathers he had put himself at the mercy of by vying for a young lady's hand). The only person at that table who really _looked at him _was Edith – and he was at her mercy more than anyone's.

If this mess wasn't going to become a permanent state of affairs, Anthony had to do something about it – and quickly. But _what_, at this point? Wasn't it already too late?

But no, it couldn't be, it _mustn't_ be – not for the sake of his pride, but for Edith, and her relationship with her family. He had wanted, back in 1914, to lift her out of Downton so that she would have a chance to blossom…_not_ to make her look a failure who (in her family's eyes at least) had settled in her choice of husband.

Though, while on the subject of blossoming…Edith, tonight… God. She was _ravishing_.

There was something different in her air this evening (since their morning drive, actually), some new…confidence? And whatever it was, it shone through her every movement – the elegant line of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, the curve of her lips. And then there was that dress…

"Well, I don't know," Mrs Crawley was saying, "I think a little variation is a good thing, a refreshing change. Look how well your last dinner party went down – broken oven notwithstanding."  
"Well, quite," smirked Martha Levinson, with a pointed smile in the direction of the couple who had become engaged at that same party. Anthony managed a self-deprecatory smile; all the while cringing internally in anticipation of what Lord Grantham must think, to be reminded simultaneously of a social embarrassment and an unsatisfactory engagement.

But he couldn't dwell on it for long, because her grandmother's reference earned a charming little snicker from Edith. And a few seconds later, there was the softest rustle of silk, and her leg shifted beneath the table, just enough that her knee leant on his. The table was crowded, it was true – but this was undoubtedly deliberate. He knew, without looking, that those deep brown eyes were on him, warmly – and he had been warm to begin with. Anthony took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry I missed that party," Sybil smiled, in her sister's direction. "A little friendly informality can be the best fun."  
Edith nodded in agreement; and, as Lady Violet enforced a new topic of conversation, she inclined her head towards Anthony.  
"Especially when a couple are alone…" Edith murmured under her breath, warm and teasing. Anthony knew all too well that she was referring to their car-ride back from Archie's house – and his mind helpfully called up an extremely vivid recollection of tender lips, and warm sighs, and the way her waist had felt beneath his hand.  
_Imagine that green silk beneath your fingers… God, no, don't!_

For the duration of dessert, Anthony was provided with a striking illustration of what a dangerous thing it was to be at the mercy of a woman. Especially when that woman was Edith Crawley; whose fingers absently caressed her crystal wine glass…who toyed with the jewels that hung at her enticing neckline…Edith Crawley whose warm, lithe leg still rested against his beneath the cover of the table.

And, of course, that unbelievable girl topped it all off with intelligent conversation that made the very train of thought she'd driven him to seem base and lowly.

_God help me_, Anthony sighed into the rim of his wine glass.

* * *

By the time the last of the dessert things had been cleared away, Edith was beginning to feel just a little ashamed of herself. She had only wanted to…well, enjoy a small taste of what was to come…but perhaps she'd gone a little too far. And at any rate, it seemed that Anthony was thoroughly focused on entertaining his honoured guests – _because_, Edith scolded herself, _he is mature and sensible man. _He only ever seemed to glance across at her when it was necessary for the sake of conversation.

Feeling like a fool not for the first time in her life, Edith sighed; a little more heavily than she'd intended. The others were engaged in a rather boisterous conversation about travel – but the sigh did not escape her fiancé, and he immediately turned his head. Those blue eyes looked directly into hers at last; such natural kindness in the questioning arch of his brow. She could almost hear Anthony asking, _what's the matter? _She offered a weak smile, in an attempt at reassurance. Oh, he was better to her than she deserved.

A few minutes later, as soon as the conversation lapsed, Anthony cleared his throat.  
"Well then…shall we all move through to the drawing room? There'll be tea, and brandy for anyone who's interested."  
With politely gratified murmurs and compliments on the meal, the Crawleys rose to leave the dinner table. At a nod from Anthony, Lord Grantham led the party out into the hall, with the Dowager Countess not far behind. Edith rose from her chair also, but moved towards the door with a particular awareness of Anthony; he followed her into the hall, but was hanging back, and she instinctively lingered to be near him. Just as Mrs. Crawley disappeared into the drawing room ahead of them, she felt his hand at her elbow, backing her up into a little alcove by the window. Edith looked to him in question; but her fiancé wore a similar expression.

"What was that about, at dinner? Is something the matter?"  
The young woman ducked her head, feeling horribly childish with this sweet, intelligent man looking down at her.  
"No, not – I'm sorry if I was a little…excessive. It's just…"  
She couldn't look up to meet his eyes, but at least he didn't seem angry: his thumb caressed her elbow absently, encouraging her to go on.  
"I was just being indulgent, because it's…something of a novelty…to, erm, to be able to…command a man's attention, while Mary's in the room."  
She risked a shamed glance upward, to find Anthony regarding her almost with incredulity.  
"While Mary's in the room?" he repeated, his tone a strange tangle of exasperation and fondness.  
_Oh, I'm a fool_, she thought, blushing, and resisting the urge to hide her face in the masculine chest at so convenient a proximity.  
"Edith, darling," the gentleman managed, "you'd have my attention with…the Queen of Sheba and her whole dancing court in the room!" He heaved a sigh, and then continued as though the words were forcing themselves past his lips. "Particularly in that dress, if I may be so bold…"  
Raising her eyes at last in sheepish gratitude, Edith found herself under a distinctly appreciative gaze, and blushed again – though for a different reason this time. How strange, that it was possible to at once feel more of a child _and_ more of a woman than ever.

But Anthony seemed to steel himself then – which was just a little disappointing, cosy as they were in that alcove – and he cleared his throat.  
"Now, we'd best get going – we've probably been missed already…"  
He turned to gaze regretfully at the doorway, already leaning to move towards it, but Edith felt a desperation rise in her chest at the thought of losing this private moment; a need to have him understand. She caught his arm.  
"I love you, Anthony," she said, softly but _so_ sincerely.  
The gentleman turned back to her then, and she could see his deep breath in the rise of his chest. He shook his head at her, as though in wonder, yet almost sadly.  
"And you will never know how I love you, my darling," he told her, quietly, stepping aside that she might precede him into the drawing room. Edith did so with a placated little smile about her lips.  
_Oh, I __am__ lucky_, she thought to herself.

It was quite impossible to hide how lucky she felt, as she and her fiancé joined the others, a little belatedly. And when she caught Mary's eye, Edith knew she blushed a little – there was no hiding the fact they'd lingered behind deliberately. Strangely, though, her sister didn't roll her eyes – just quirked an eyebrow, with a knowing smirk. It was almost…friendly. Her father looked rather less pleased – but Anthony immediately resumed the role of host, offering brandy and tea, and the little bump in the evening was smoothed out.

With summer on its way, daylight lingered into the evening, and Edith kept close to her fiancé, chatting with her Grandmamma and Mrs. Crawley by the window. The pale twilight bathed Locksley's drawing room in an ethereal glow; and Edith felt such a bittersweet sense of change – of maturation (at last). This was a strange, off-balance time – but oh, it was wonderful.

But, as ever, the Dowager Countess announced that she would be leaving, and all the others followed suit. Sybil and Tom had ridden with Matthew and Mary on the way to Locksley, but when the cars came round Cora and Sybil were locked together, chatting fondly, so they all piled in together. This left Edith waiting with Anthony, her sister, and cousin Matthew.  
"Edith can ride with us," Matthew offered, with a jovial smile to his in-laws in their car.  
"If Pratt ever brings the car around," added Mary, gazing about with a wry smile, as her parents' car set off.  
"You'd be welcome to wait in the library-" Anthony had begun, when at last the crunch of wheels on gravel announced their chauffeur's arrival.  
"Ah – not to worry," the younger man smiled, offering an arm to his wife.  
"Join us when you're ready, Edith," Mary told her sister, already moving towards the car. "We're not in any rush – nor is Pratt, apparently – and I'm sure you've last-minute wedding details to go over."  
Her knowing smile again brought a faint blush to Edith's cheeks, and she scarcely knew whether she was exasperated or grateful. She settled on the later, turning back to Anthony with a little smile, as he stood in the shadow of Locksley's doorway. He was looking after the departing couple with surprise, but at last he looked down at Edith – his mouth twisting into that familiar half-smile.

"That was nice of them," she admitted, running one gloved hand over the other; and toying with the idea of bringing up her morning's discovery, the glove in his pocket. Or would she wait till they were married?  
"It was," the man agreed, his viable hand thrust into his pocket. "Actually, I _was_ hoping to have a word with you." He stepped back a little, so that they were hidden in the hall.  
"So was I…" Edith smiled, not too broadly she hoped. "But you go first."

It was only then that she noticed exactly how discomforted he looked.  
"Edith…I'm sorry to bring this up now, but it must be addressed… Are-"  
He paused, then rallied.  
"Are you absolutely sure we're doing the right thing?"

"What do you mean?"  
Her tone was too light; as though she thought that if she smiled enough, he'd simply have to smile as well. But Anthony went on – without smiling. At all.  
"In getting married. Edith, I couldn't bear it if you – if you weren't happy, if I tied you down. You shouldn't settle for… You could do anything, you know…and I can't help but wonder if-"  
"_Anthony_."

That was all she could manage, for a moment at least, because a fearful coldness was spreading through her veins – which made no sense, because wasn't it summer? Hadn't she been warm not two minutes ago? And everything seemed terribly slow, all of a sudden.

"I don't under – _how_ can you think…I'm not settling in the slightest – I _love you_."  
Edith paused, breathed, tried to gather her shattered thoughts.  
"I'm not settling for _less_ than what I might have had – I'm reaching for more! Don't you see? And not just more than living out a spinsterhood at Downton – more than a dissatisfactory marriage! Do you know what 'settling' would really be? Marrying whatever fortune hunter Aunt Rosamund might throw at me, and consigning myself to a life with some dull man who had no conversation and no real interest in his wife. Whereas with you – Anthony, with you…"

She looked up at him, desperately, trying to break the resignation in his eyes. Surely she _could_. How could he so fail to see?

"With you I'll wake every morning and read the papers with someone who actually cares, and be wonderfully busy seeing to all sorts of things, helping run the house and the estate. I _want_ to help. You can't think it'd be some meagre compromise… I'd love to keep the books or to write in the hours you're busy – and then at the end of the day we'll come home to each other. Won't we?"

She reached for his elbow, coaxingly – but, to her horror, he actually pulled away.

It really was as though the world had suddenly ceased to spin. And when it started again a moment later the axis had shifted, and everything was so terribly wrong. The air was wrong and the ground was wrong, and that ice had begun to settle somewhere around her heart.

"Edith," he began, his tone strained, "you're so young-"  
"I'm not _that_ young," she cut in, rather bitterly – relieved to find she was still capable of speech.  
"And your family have never been thrilled at the prospect…"

"Oh, I see." She drew a deep breath, realization dawning all too sharply.  
"They've got to you, haven't they? Papa, and Granny?"  
Edith couldn't keep the edge out of her voice.  
"_Let me guess_…a few snide remarks, wounding glances – the occasional condescending pat on the head – and enough ill-concealed scorn to make you wonder why you even bother drawing breath?"

The man blinked, seemingly startled by her vehemence – and her accuracy. She took a perverse kind of pleasure in his shock.  
"How do I know, you wonder? Because I've _been there_, Anthony."  
That desperation was back – to make him know, to make him see.  
"And if it weren't for you, I'd _still_ be there. You were the one who, years ago, made me realise that not _everyone _sees me as some plain, irrelevant nuisance. You 'gave me _my _life', in a way…and better still you _came back into it_… But if I can't make _you_ see that you are so much more than what some people might think…that you are _exactly_ what I want…then perhaps I'm not as good for you as you are for me."

Edith managed to finish the sentence just before her throat seemed to close up, and it was all she could do to drag in painful breaths. Anthony looked just as wretched as she felt, his brow creased – but worst of all was the hopelessness in his eyes. His beautiful, tired, _blue_ eyes.  
"Edith, don't – I'm sorry – I didn't want to upset you…"  
A noise of vehement disbelief escaped her, and he flinched.  
"But we _must_ talk, before…"  
Apparently that sentence was too difficult to finish, and Anthony raised his viable hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes closing.  
"I've made such a hash of this…Perhaps it might be best if we left it, just for now. If I call around tomorrow…?"  
"Alright," Edith heard herself saying, monotone. "I should be going now, anyway – Mary and her husband are waiting."  
Anthony swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving her. "Goodnight, Edith. Believe me, I…"  
He couldn't finish that sentence either. "I'll see you tomorrow," was safer, apparently.

Her breath coming in shudders, Edith turned to escape the arch of Locksley's doorway – the same arch that had seemed so welcoming, so _hers_, that very morning – and she found herself saying something she didn't really mean.

"A girl could get sick of being almost-married, you know," came a distant, icy tone – apparently her own. "Always the fiancé, never the bride…"

The words had barely passed her lips when Edith cringed and stopped short, turning on her heel to take it back. Anthony looked so…broken.  
"I'm _sorry_," she said, desperately earnest. "I didn't mean-"

"You've got a point though, don't you?" said Anthony Strallan, too quietly, as he turned to walk away.

* * *

_**A/N: **Oh look, it's almost like a cliffhanger...Or it would be, if you didn't already know that I don't have the heart to write a tragedy! Do let me know what you think..._


	7. Chapter 6

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **As is my terrible habit, I offer profuse apologies for the time lapsed between the posting of the last chapter and this one._

_Thank you so much to those who left reviews - it is always so very appreciated._

_This chapter, and the one that follows - which, you may be interested to know, is already written, currently being edited, and will be posted very soon - are vital (to the extent of being the reason I started this fic) and so of course I wanted to give them time and attention. Which, hopefully, means I might've done them justice - and if so, it is thanks in no small part to WisdomState, for her valuable contributions and general kindness._

_I'll stop waffling on, now - but I very much hope you enjoy this chapter - and there is more to come very soon, I promise!_

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX**

Anthony Strallan sat in his library, beside a fire that the maid had lit very quietly, without looking at him or making some comment on the weather, as she might usually do. His tie was loose, and there was a glass of whiskey his single viable hand, but he hadn't yet tasted a drop of it. His eyes already stung, as it was.

He appeared to be staring at the coal-blackened grate – but all Anthony could see, eyes open or closed, was Edith Crawley. Edith Crawley on his doorstep; fists clenched, chest heaving, eyes…so hurt. And angry. Like some wild, beautiful, injured green-silk bird…

Not that she didn't have every right to be angry. Look what he'd done to her. Again.

Perhaps it was too late, now – perhaps their chance had gone. Perhaps there had been one brief moment, one day at a garden party in 1914, when he could have seized the moment and made her his wife. But he had not been man enough then to ask her, to speak to her himself – and now he was no longer the man he had been. So he would lose her, again – and all by his own weakness. It was a fitting punishment.

But, _Edith_…

* * *

On the car ride back to Downton, Edith had been quiet and pale – which Mary noticed, of course, but she didn't say a word. There was only a worried glance to Matthew, which her sister barely registered – staring blankly out the window as night descended on Yorkshire. The last of the light had disappeared by the time Carson welcomed the party at the front door.

The family traipsed inside, headed for the drawing room, all still chattering away – only Mary lingered back, and gingerly touched Edith's arm as they neared the door.

"Should you…get an early night, do you think?"  
There was as much honest concern in her sister's face as Edith had ever seen, and as she glanced up towards the staircase she opened her mouth to reply. But then belatedly it struck her that, among the voices from the drawing room ahead (and loudest among them), was the distinctive tone of her grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Grantham…who had put an end to their evening at Locksley by announcing her intention to go home…and yet who was now settling down by her son's fireplace, for another leisurely cup of tea. Edith felt something deep in her ignite – hard as steel on flint – and for once, it wasn't striking out at Mary.  
"Not just yet," she told her sister, with a distracted, grateful pat of her hand; and she continued into the drawing room.

With Mary at her heels, Edith entered the drawing room – that same room Anthony had always wonderfully arrived into, each time he came back into her life – and instinctively she made for a quiet corner. She hadn't quite reached it yet, when she caught the end of a conversation that she clearly wasn't supposed to.

"Still, it was a pleasant evening," Cora sighed, in the conciliatory tone she so often deployed in her attempts to smooth things down.  
"For what it was…" replied Lady Violet, toying impatiently with her cane. "Though I can't say I thought much of the house – quite dated, I found. Much like its owner…"

There was one second, in which Edith's eyes widened – in which she realised just how many similar jibes Anthony must have overheard – and then quite suddenly, she was speaking. Loudly.

"Do you _ever_ think before you speak?!"

The drawing room fell instantly into a stunned silence, all heads turning to stare at the figure whose sombre presence they had barely noticed before. The middle daughter's eyes were firmly fixed on Lady Violet.

"Well?! Do you? Do you ever stop to think that there are more opinions, more…perspectives – more _hearts_ in the world than your own?!"  
Her grandmother blinked – astounded, and too disbelieving as yet to be anything more than faintly affronted.  
"Really, Edith-"  
"Yes, _really_, Granny!"  
If the Dowager had been about to disapprove, she was apparently not to get the chance.

Still staring at his suddenly-blazing sister-in-law, Matthew inclined his head towards his mother.  
"Tally-ho Edith!" he muttered from the corner of his mouth, trying to keep the pride from showing on his face. Mrs. Crawley didn't even bother – and nor did Martha Levinson.

"You know exactly what I mean," Edith pressed, turning so that she might address her father as well. "The both of you. I thought you'd listened to me the first time, and only now do I realise…"  
She shook her head, almost unable to believe it.  
"Because that wonderful, _wonderful_ man, who has been nothing but kind to you all – and who I am so horribly in love with – he's afraid he won't be able to make me happy, in the end."

Her eyes travelled each face in the room; demanding their attention, willing them to understand the pity of it all.  
"We all know it wasn't _me_ who put that idea into his head – _I've_ been doing my best to convince him of the very opposite for months….years! And not because I'm desperate to become a married woman at any cost, in case that's what you're thinking – but because I _love Anthony Strallan_, and I'm desperate to become _his_ wife. If you ever looked at me closely enough and stopped leaping to conclusions, you might have noticed that."

Cora's brow was creased at such striking evidence of her daughter's pent-up anguish, and there was something in her eyes not unlike guilt. But it was her father who Edith was addressing.

"I choose to think – I _want_ to think that you're acting with my best interests at heart… though forgive my wondering whether it isn't a little late to begin that…  
And, what's more, it's all so terribly, horribly ironic – because years ago, before the war, you would have been happy for me to marry him, to get me out from under your feet – back when I was a foolish little girl who didn't even _realise_ how rare it was to understand another person so well as Anthony and I understand each other. And now, now that I'm actually ready for marriage, know my capabilities and exactly what it is I'm undertaking – now that I am a grown woman, you are treating me like a child. Don't you _see_ that? To say nothing of the way you're treating Anthony…"

Lord Grantham looked more stunned than he looked angry – though Edith had little doubt that was to come. Nonetheless, she had to pause for a second, gather herself. She was almost dizzy from feeling so much, so vehemently – and from fearing so much. The only sound in the room was her breath, and the crackle of the fire. Edith closed her eyes for a second, willing herself to calm – and when she began again, her tone was more even.

"I'm sorry to be so blunt about all this. I know I've been harsh – but then, you haven't exactly been gentle on my fiancé. If he still _is_ my fiancé …"  
Sybil's already-sympathetic frown deepened, to hear that hopeless tone.  
"But anyway, this is it: I _do_ _intend_ to marry him – if we have to have the tiniest of weddings in a little registry somewhere."

Then, under the weight of her family's collective stare – the weight of finally speaking all the injustice she felt – Edith suddenly had to gasp in a great breath to keep from crying. Her expression softened – broke, really – and she tried hard not to beg.

"Of course, I would _so_ much prefer it if you would all come. Of course I would _love_ to wear the Grantham coronet – I've dreamed of it since I was four years old…but it really won't mean anything if I'm not marrying the man I love."

Silence reigned, still – and Edith began to wonder whether desperation could somehow make you deaf. (It took a lot to render the Dowager Countess speechless).

Then, someone began to clap. Slowly, and quietly, and just to her left.

Mary – cold and cautious, beautiful Mary – was standing by the doorway still, and was regarding her younger sister with…with _admiration_. And of course, she had no fear of breaking the silence.

"Bravo, Edith. You know, I think that's the bravest thing you've ever done? Or at least the most honest."

The dark-haired beauty stepped forward, looking past her sister to address a rather shell-shocked Dowager Countess. "And I'm sorry, Granny, but I'll be dashed if I'm not at my own sister's wedding. I mean…" Mary shrugged a little defensively, aware that she was earning incredulous stares herself, "we put in so many hours of rehearsal as little girls."

Cora's eyes were full – and they nearly spilled over when Sybil got to her feet.  
"Quite right," the youngest said, her tone quite brimming with warmth as she looked from one dear elder sister to the other, and remembered playing flower-girl every time. "We'll definitely be there – won't we Tom?"  
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," said Sybil's husband, practically grinning.  
"Count me in," came Martha's brassy American voice; and a second later Mrs. Crawley joined the throng.  
"Me too," Isobel said, in that blazing tone she could never hold back when it came to matters of fundamental justice. "Absolutely."

"At this rate," smiled Matthew crookedly, "a little registry won't be big enough. When you add Mary and I…" He didn't dare look at Robert.  
"It certainly won't," confirmed Cora, her tone strikingly decisive. "Because, Robert, I will_ not miss_ another daughter's wedding."  
Sybil's eyes shone.

Robert dragged wide eyes from daughter to daughter to wife…and ultimately seemed quite unable to think of a word to say. But then, neither could Edith. She could only stare from one family-member to the other, as they smiled at her.  
Sympathetically. Supportively. _On her side_.  
The whole of it was dangerously close to becoming all too much.

And Mary noticed that – taking a decisive step forward just as her sister's lip began to quiver. She took Edith by the arm, and began to speak quite firmly.  
"Now, I think Edith needs to take a moment – we'll be upstairs. Do excuse us, Papa."  
In a disbelieving haze, Edith allowed herself to be guided towards the door by her elder sister – who turned to speak over her shoulder.  
"Matthew, would you…?"  
"Ah, yes – excuse me, Robert," the young man nodded sheepishly, following his wife.  
"We'd better join them," decided Sybil, gazing after her sisters half-anxiously, and reaching for Tom's hand. "Edith will need our support," she tried to explain, offering her Granny a placating little smile (and trying not to make that phrase sound too pointed). Then the two of them disappeared out of the door – and the exodus of young people was complete.

The smile fading from her face, Cora turned smartly to face her husband and his sharp-tongued mother.  
"Well," she pursed her lips. "I hope you two were listening…"

* * *

At the top of the stairs, still firmly steered by her sister's arm, Edith was beginning to regain her composure. "Mary, I-"  
"Shh, don't worry. In here."

It was only when she'd actually been ushered through a door that Edith realised: the walls were pink, and this wasn't Mary's room, but her own. She blinked. Growing up, it had always been Mary's room, the place they had to meet when anything happened – 'the queen's chamber', Edith had used to call it. But here was her older sister, deigning to plump up the cushions she had once called 'garish' and making space for them both to sit. What a ridiculous thing to be touched by…

"Now, sit down – should I ring for some tea? Ah-"  
There was a knock on the door, and a moment later Matthew's head appeared round the door, with a tentative smile.  
"May we come in?"  
When Edith managed to nod, Mary agreed, and suddenly the room was quite full of her sisters and their husbands.  
"We, err – we thought a little fortifying drop might be in order?" suggested Tom, rather sheepishly, proffering a crystal decanter they'd obviously nabbed from one of the rooms.  
"If not for you, then for _me_," added Matthew, sitting down in the window seat with a humorous impression of someone suffering delayed shock. Sybil shook her head smilingly, taking a seat on the other side of the bed, and reached to place a comforting hand over Edith's.

"Are you alright, darling?" she asked, earnestly.  
"I…hope so…" Edith managed, then shook herself, fearing she might sound ungrateful. "Thank you, for…You can't know what it means."  
Matthew shook his head, earnestly. "It was only right. Now, if Tom's got the glasses, may I propose a toast?"  
Sybil turned to her husband, who had also apparently managed to collect four small glasses – not the proper kind, of course, and all mismatched. "What is that, anyway?"  
"Brandy, I believe."  
"Ooh, but we girls are never allowed to take brandy," gushed the married woman, looking so much like the mischievous little sister Edith had always loved that she and Mary almost laughed.  
"Well, I think this occasion calls for it," Mary decided, passing around the mismatched glasses – one too few, but Sybil shook her head – she'd share with Tom.  
"And I probably won't like it anyway," she smiled, patting her rounded stomach.  
"Well then," announced Matthew, an attempt at grandeur rather spoiled by his foolish grin, "let's all drink to Edith – and her fiery eloquence."  
"To Edith…"

With a mix of tears and brandy in her throat, the Crawley's middle daughter gazed, humbled, around her gathered siblings. The satisfied, sipping silence was broken a moment later by Tom, who was regarding her with a warm, teasing grin.  
"Now, have ya ever considered going into politics?"  
Edith had to laugh – they all were. _With_ her.

"This is so good of you," Edith sighed, as the laughter faded. "But…I'm afraid it might all come to naught." She looked down at her lap. "Anthony and I…we argued after dinner…and he's so…"

As Sybil slid closer to squeeze her sister's shoulder, Mary slid away; pulling Tom aside as subtly as possible. Her eyes still on Edith, full of real concern _and_ firm determination, she whispered something in her brother-in-law's ear.

"Tell Pratt you need the car…"

* * *

There was a soft knock on the library door. Anthony lifted his head wearily.  
"Who is it?"  
"A Mr. Branson, sir," came Sampson's bemused reply, as he opened the door and the young man stepped inside. Anthony's brows shot upward.  
"Tom…W-what-"  
He sat up straighter, blinking. The young man – still in his slightly shabby dinner jacket – offered an awkward smile.

"I'm sorry to intrude," he began, rather stiffly, "but I'm here at Lady Mary's behest. There's been a bit of trouble at Downton, and it might be best if-"  
Anthony was half out of his chair, imagining the calibre of catastrophe that would cause Mary Crawley to consider keeping him informed.

"Is she ill – Edith?"  
Tom shook his head, to Anthony's immense relief.  
"No, she's not ill." He fidgeted for a second. "But she's not happy. If you'll come, Mary will…"

The young man was already moving back towards the door, but Anthony shook his head, putting a hand to his brow almost desperately.  
"Wait. Look-"  
The prospect of seeing Edith just now – his chest seized up at the thought. Willing himself to calm, Anthony heaved a sigh, and turned back to the young Irishman who was apparently trying to help.

"Please, err, come in, properly," he said, with as much courtesy as an aggrieved man can muster. "Sit down. Err… Would you like a drink?"  
Mr. Branson was regarding him cautiously – presumably stunned to find old Sir Anthony Strallan anything other than mild and cheerful.  
"Ah, just a small one – since I'm driving."

Tom sat down, a little awkwardly, in the chair across the way, and accepted the glass he was given. Anthony frowned for a moment, gazing into his own whiskey to avoid the young man's eyes; and then shook himself into concentration.  
"Now…tell me…What's happened?"

The late-night visitor cleared his throat a little, leaning forward in his chair.  
"Well, ah…basically, Edith overheard the Dowager Countess passing comment on…this house, and…on you. And she snapped."

Anthony swallowed hard, feeling a flush of anger at Lady Grantham – more for Edith's sake than his own. The Dowager's jibes were cutting enough when a person was feeling calm to begin with – and Edith had been distraught.

But when he looked up at Tom, the lad looked as though he was…trying not to smile. Anthony was about to ask him what the devil he meant by it, but the young man got in first.  
"She gave them a right dressing down, actually," he explained, in a quieter tone. "It was…impressive."  
Tom smoothed that indiscretion with little sip of whisky; and then looked down at his feet, apparently awaiting further questions. Anthony raised his eyebrows, trying to let this bizarre evening sink in – and trying not to let himself read too much into the fact that Edith had apparently come to his defence, their evening's argument notwithstanding.

"Is she…alright?"  
It was a foolish question, he knew. But he had to ask.  
"When I left, she was in her room, being looked after by the others, while Lord and Lady Grantham recovered downstairs."  
"And she asked for me?"  
"Well…_she_ didn't. Mary sent me, like I said. But I'm sure it'd do her good to see you."  
Anthony felt something inside him fall away, to learn that vital, disappointing detail.  
"You might well _think_ so…" he said, bitterly, to himself.

The young man's eyes were on him, he knew, as a brooding silence stretched between the two armchairs. God, he just wanted to-

"What's the problem? If it's not rude to…"  
Anthony looked across then, and saw Edith's brother-in-law regarding him very openly. Cautiously perhaps, but without anything like resentment. Wondering vaguely what had happened to his life, that the complicated _Tom Branson_ was looking on him with pity, the gentleman heaved another sigh, and shook his head.

"You've a right to ask, of course. You're Edith's family." He managed something almost like a smile. "I only wish I had a decent answer."  
"May as well start somewhere – if it'd help," Tom suggested, carefully, taking another fortifying sip. Anthony raised his eyebrows in acquiescence, and tried to find a way to begin. 'At the beginning' was too difficult – particularly since he wasn't sure he'd even be able to pinpoint a 'beginning' – and anyway, he didn't know this man well enough to go baring his soul completely. That was only for dearest loved ones. Not that he could say he'd yet risked truly baring his soul to Edith – his very dearest love though she may be.  
_You wretched coward._

"I suppose it wouldn't be so insurmountable," Anthony began, "Lady Grantham's opinions, I mean, and Lord Grantham's – if I didn't know so well that they're _right_. I _am_ too old, I _am_ crippled, and I should never have let things go so far. Supposing that your child is a daughter," he posited suddenly, to his companion's surprise, "you wouldn't want her marrying a man in my condition, would you?" He didn't wait for Tom to answer.  
"I knew all that, but I was weak; I let myself…be deluded…and now Edith suffers for it."  
He paused and set his jaw, gripping his glass tighter.

"She's not the only one suffering," Tom observed, meeting the eyes of his tired, dishevelled host. "But listen…the way I see it – and I know I'm the outsider here, but that actually puts me in a pretty good place for observation." The lad looked half-apologetic, half-insistent.  
"And to be frank, I think the Dowager's opinions have much less to do with you and Edith than they have to do with herself." He paused suddenly. "God, don't tell her I said that."  
Anthony gave a dry laugh at the very thought, and the young man continued.

"I mean, she doesn't actually know how you two are together – all _any_ of us know is that you make each other grin – so who is she to decide what works and what doesn't? I mean, I know it's 'the way' for your set of people…but, honestly…"  
Tom shook his head in frustration, and the gentleman got the feeling he was about to receive a lecture on the fundamental flaws of the aristocracy – but then the young man's expression softened. He was remarkably frank, this boy.

"Honestly – I think she and Lord Grantham just need to think that their word is law. Sybil and I challenged that – but perhaps in you the Dowager sees someone whose scruples she can work on. I _have_ no sense of honour for them to manipulate," he grimaced effacingly with that attempt at humour, and Anthony shook his head.  
"I don't believe that for a moment. But-"  
"Ah! I'm not finished," Tom interrupted, and the gentleman blinked in surprise.

"As for making Edith happy – well, that really _isn't_ my place to say – but surely it's _hers_. And I get the impression she's got opinions just as strong as Lady Grantham's. Stronger!"  
Anthony raised his eyebrows in concession, remembering the blazing woman on his doorstep. There was a pensive silence – until Tom broke it again.

"And, if I _may_ put my bit in…well, I think you two make sense together. You…fit. And believe me, I know about mismatched couples!"  
He huffed a laugh, and it could not have been more obvious how very much he loved his wife. Anthony felt his mouth twist into a genuine smile.

"Not only are you two both English – you're similar people. And you grew up in the same county, same village. I can't even imagine how much you must have in common. So _what_ if there happen to be a few decades between you? I'm sure it's good for the man to have the benefit of age and experience on his side – we've got precious little else, God knows, when it comes to love. Besides, I've got my suspicions that a woman likes to feel protected – whether she'll admit to it or not."

"But that's the thing," said Anthony, even as something terrifyingly close to hope built in his chest, "I _can't_ protect her. Look at me."  
"You protected _me _from that Larry Grey…person," Tom pointed out, giving the distinct impression that he could have provided many other descriptive terms for that particular young man (not one of which Anthony would have objected to). "And I've got much broader shoulders than Edith does. Though like I said," he added, "she really showed her strength tonight."

_And it's about time I did the same._

"Has anyone ever told you-"  
"That I could talk the hind leg off a donkey? Yeah." The lad grinned, and drained his glass.

They regarded each other for a moment – and then abruptly Tom looked down at the empty glass between his hands. He stood up, moving to return it to the cart.  
"I'd better be heading back to Downton," he said, turning back to face the gentleman. "Am I going alone?"  
Anthony breathed out, slowly.

"Just let me fetch my coat."  
"Thank God," Tom muttered under his breath, following his host out of the library. "Mary would've had my head."

Sampson met them in the hall, looking rather discombobulated by all this late-night coming-and-going.  
"Err, will you be wanting the car, sir?"  
"Not to worry," said Tom, with a wry, good-natured grin to the grey old butler. "Sir Anthony's already got a chauffeur."  
"And I'm so much obliged, Tom," Anthony assured him, as Sampson helped him on with his coat. "Really."

Sir Strallan climbed into the front seat just as the ex-chauffeur started the motor.  
"D'ya want some time to think on what you'll say to her – or shall I step on it?"  
"I've been thinking of what to say to her for hours. Step on it, if you will."

It was not with a "yes, sir", but a knowing, man-to-man grin that Tom Branson put the pedal to the metal, and sped them through the narrow hedge-rowed lanes to Downton Abbey.

* * *

_**A/N: **Fun fact - Edith's rant to Violet was drafted immediately after I first watched 3.03. (I think I had an allergic reaction to tragedy). I hope it's well enough disguised as Edith's anger, not just my own!_

_And, if anything in this chapter (or the following one...) seems implausible - well, keep in mind that these scenes are sort of "the non-seasonal Christmas Special episode" of my fic, in which miracles are allowed to happen because I say so, by jingo!_


	8. Chapter 7

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Many thanks to all for your kind reviews. I so hope that you enjoy this chapter!_

_And many thanks, of course, to WisdomState._

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Edith was sitting on her bed, gloves tossed to one side and Sybil nestled on the other. Matthew, meanwhile, was attempting to comfort and entertain simultaneously, with the story of the one and only time he'd had an all-out disagreement with his father. Then there came a knock on the door, and everyone stiffened; anticipating the (delayed) righteous fury of Lord Grantham.

Instead, a vivacious, well-lived redhead peered around the door.  
"It's only me," Martha Levinson assured them. "Mind if I join you?"  
Edith smiled bravely, and Mary shuffled over by way of response; so their American grandmother tiptoed inside (more dramatically than necessary), shutting the door carefully behind herself.

"Cora is currently having a few words with your Papa, and Lady Violet – not quite the words _I_ would have chosen, but then my daughter always was the diplomatic one."  
Matthew tried to cover a smirk.  
"And since she wouldn't let me join in, I thought I'd follow you all up here. Say, pour me one of them, would ya?"  
Sybil passed Tom's disused glass, and soon Mrs. Levinson too had herself a nip of brandy.

"Well now, Edith dear – are you alright? I see you're well looked-after… But that was quite a shock you gave us all. And well-spoken! I knew you weren't my granddaughter for nothing."

Edith smiled embarrassedly, unused to taking praise: and in this case, she wasn't sure she really deserved it. Her speech had been entirely too close to a tantrum, for a woman of twenty-six – and even at sixteen she had never been the flaming firebrand that Sybil was. But then, as Mary said, it _had_ been honest. She had never been so entirely candid – she'd never had anything so very precious to be candid _about_. And, at any rate, there wasn't nearly enough honesty amongst the gentry, she'd decided.

"So what's the plan?" asked their grandmother, boldly, with a clap of her hands. "I assume we have one…"  
Mary looked askance – but Edith didn't notice, replying grimly, "That'll depend on how much I've offended Papa and Granny. And on Anthony…"

Sybil linked their arms, an expression of nursely-efficiency lighting her face.  
"Well, as far as Papa goes…I think you're more subtle in these things than me, so I doubt you'll really want to elope, will you?"  
Martha raised her eyebrows, receiving previously-hushed-up details about her youngest granddaughter's courtship – but she didn't say a word.

"If only it was easier to somehow let Papa and Granny think that it's still a matter of their 'letting us' choose who we marry. Things are so much freer now – and it must be very hard, I suppose, getting older, and realising that the world you knew is crumbling, and that you don't have the power you used to…"  
"Oh Sybil," Mary sighed, continually astounded by her little sister, "you're too good! You make Edith and I look like vipers in the nest – Goneril and Regan! Surely there's been a time you've wanted to shove Granny's cane down her throat?"  
Martha coughed, as though to repress a confession of her own.  
"Oh, several!" Sybil assured them – and Edith felt a little placated, to remember that even Angelic Little Sybil had moments of spite.  
"The only reason I can be detached – and I can't _always_ – is because I've already found a way to live as I wish to. And you can too, Edith. Honestly – if Papa gave me his blessing to marry Tom, then he _must_ come around to you and Anthony."

Edith sighed, and patted her sister's hand. She wanted to be convinced, very much – but she couldn't forget the look on Anthony's face as he'd stood in Locksley's hallway. The resignation in his eyes…

"It's very hard on Anthony," she tried to explain. "He sets so much stock by parental approval – because he grew up in the same world as Papa, I suppose. And I haven't been fair on him…he tried to talk to me this evening, and I said such horrid things … Oh God, what if he's given up on me?"  
Raising a hand to her face in an effort to keep her composure, Edith let her Grandmamma grab the other one.  
"Darling, I have the seen the way he looks at you, and I don't think there's a chance in the _world_…"

Mary stood up, making for the door. She knew all too well what it was to fear that your harsh Crawley tongue might have ruined all chance of happiness.

"I might just ring for some tea…" said Mary, mildly.

* * *

She met Anthony at the back door; just as Tom waved him in, driving on to sneak the motor back into the garage. He was rather surprised to see her there – looking like some particularly elegant night watchman in ruby silk – but then, Tom had assured him of her good intentions.

"Lady Mary…"  
"Mary, please," she shook her head, motioning for him to join her in the shadow of the doorway. "I'm glad you came."  
"Of course," the gentleman said, rather defensively. Did she think there was anything he wouldn't do for her sister? Well, of course…

"I understand that Edith's quite upset."  
Mary nodded. "With Granny, mainly. And Papa. She feels they've been unfair on you – and she certainly let us all know it." She half-smirked, and arched a brow. "I wish you could've seen her, actually. Although it might have scared you off…"  
The upward inflection of those last words implied a challenge, daring him to disappoint – but Anthony could meet her gaze with perfect honesty.  
"Nothing could. I love her."  
A second passed. A smile worked on Mary's face, then; and Anthony had the strange sense that he might have passed into some inner circle.  
"And she loves you, Anthony. That much is crystal clear."

The gentleman returned her smile – feeling not just relief, but a leap, to think that all hope might really not be lost. But he had to be honest with her sister, in this new beginning he'd been granted.  
"We quarrelled this evening; I-"  
Mary shook her head, a little impatiently.  
"She's fretting about that too. Come and talk it out, won't you? Before Papa sees you. Or Granny…"  
That prospect was enough to give them both a sense of urgency, and so they slipped inside, shutting the back door.

He followed Mary's dark head through the less-familiar of Downton Abbey's corridors, with a sense of surreptitiousness that he suspected they were both…almost _enjoying_. To be sneaking under the Dowager Countess's nose, alongside Lady Mary – it was surreal. The proud young lady actually smirked at herself, having peered round a corner to check the coast was clear.  
"You must be the used to this; a military man."

Shaking his head, Anthony wondered at this mystery of a woman. He could _never_ have married her – but regarding Mary Crawley as his prospective sister-in-law, he suspected that he might just be gaining the most formidable of allies. That said, he had no idea why she suddenly considered him worthy – Edith must have made quite the speech.

He swallowed hard, at the prospect of facing her – and at the sheer desperation he felt to make things right.

At last, they reached the wing which Anthony could assume held the ladies' bedrooms; and the perceived impropriety of his being there was the last thing in his head. Mary stopped in a particular doorway, light and voices leaking from the gap beneath the door. In one last surprising move, she stepped aside.  
"After you…"

Anthony met her eyes, genuine appreciation reflected in each.  
"Thank you," he said, sincerely – and they both knew he did not just mean the courtesy of letting him make an entrance. The lady smiled indulgently and shrugged; and so long gone were any echoes of a certain, heart-breaking garden party. Then Anthony turned, and mustered the courage to knock on the oaken door.

"Come in."  
The voice was Matthew's, and it was carefree: evidently they were expecting some familiar face. But not Anthony Strallan's.

When he opened the door and stepped inside, the effect was rather like dominoes – and might have been amusing, under any other circumstances. A half-second after the rest of the room had fallen into a breathless silence, Edith turned from smiling gratefully at Mrs. Levinson – and gasped outright. She might well have upended the second glass of brandy that had just been poured for her, if not for Sybil's quick hand.

"_Anthony_…"  
"Hello," he replied, rather lamely – though there was nothing on her face but shock.

And then things began to happen very quickly. Everyone was on their feet, and the rest of the family were disappearing out the door, with quite startling rapidity.  
"That would be our cue," decided Martha Levinson, looking distinctly pleased – Matthew too, with a knowing little smirk – but Anthony could do nothing but stare at Edith, who had taken a few tentative steps toward him, those lovely eyes so full of questions.

"What – H-how did you…?"

Seeing her now, meeting her eyes again, after all the pain and the revealing introspection of the past few hours… Anthony felt how much he loved her – how much he _always would_ – almost as a physical blow. How had he even thought it _possible_ that he could give her up, and carry on with anything that resembled a life?

"Tom drove me over – Mary sent him to fetch me," he managed to reply.  
"_Oh_…"

Edith's chest heaved, and her eyes flickered over his shoulder to shine gratefully on whichever sibling had not yet departed. Then Anthony heard the door click shut behind him, and her eyes returned to his – and in them he saw far too much uncertainty. The gentleman felt a sharp pang, realizing anew just how much this evening had shaken her.

"I love you."  
Somehow they were the first words out of Anthony's mouth – though not quite the point he'd _planned_ to start on – and they were delivered with a painfully tender honesty that was suddenly very easy. Because it was the only option. He simply didn't have the strength to hold the feeling in anymore; and now he knew he'd been a cowardly fool to try. Edith drew a quick, shuddering breath – but made no reply, pressing her lips together in an attempt to force some composure. Waiting for him to continue.

"And I am so very, _very_ sorry for this evening. I chose the worst moment, and I expressed myself about as clearly as a… But please, Edith, listen to me now. I…I love you more than anything on this earth; and there is nothing I have_ ever_ wanted more desperately than to make you my wife. If I've ever given you cause to believe otherwise, it's been a wretched, misguided attempt to save you from the burden of…me. Because it _won't_ be all arts and flowers… But then, you know that. Of course you do. And, _if_ – even after today – you really are content to be as happy as a one-armed old fool can _possibly_ make you…then there's really nothing else that matters, I've realised at last. Not your family – not a thing, by comparison. Only you."  
Anthony felt the heave of his chest, and fought to keep composed.  
"But of course, they _are_ a _part_ of you – your family. A part of your happiness, or unhappiness. So naturally I…oh, God, if only I were eloquent-"

He raised a hand to his brow; his desperate need to articulate everything he felt was unfortunately hampering his ability to _be_ articulate. The gentleman squeezed his eyes shut, trying to call on whatever strength he might possess – and then started, to suddenly feel lithe arms wrap around his torso, and a warm body pressed against his own. Anthony's breath caught, and then came rushing out a moment later.

Edith had pressed her cheek against his chest, head tilted downward so that all he could see was her hair – but oh, that was more than enough. With a sigh of fervent gratitude, Anthony brought his good arm to encircle her; ducking his head to press kisses into her soft curls.

He could never have articulated exactly how it felt – to know her warmth and the scent of her hair, and that she could forgive his weakness. Could she really?

"I haven't finished yet…" he mumbled weakly, into her hair.  
"I'm still listening," Edith informed him, her soft voice muffled by his lapel. "I just…need to…"  
Anthony almost laughed – with relief, with joy…with the most ardent approval.  
"So do I, darling," he confessed; and pulled her tighter against him, so that his bad hand was pressed between them, and breathed her in. He was sure he felt her press a kiss to his dress shirt.

"I'm sorry, too," Edith murmured against him – though she would not relinquish his chest in order to meet his eyes. "What I said…I didn't mean it, not at all. Except for the bit about loving you, obviously," she clarified; and Anthony hummed his understanding. His good hand rubbed soothing circles on the silk of her back.  
"You had every right," he assured her. Edith made a noise of disagreement, but he was resolute. "It was unconscionable of me, to spring my fears on you that way – I somehow thought I was seizing a vital moment to give you warning…but I was a fool."  
"A very well-meaning one," the woman qualified gently, her fingers tracing caresses at his side. She pulled back a little, and gave him a tentative smile.

It occurred to Anthony, rather belatedly, that they'd never shared so close an embrace before. God, it felt wonderful. _She_ felt wonderful.

"Edith, dearest, what I should have said this evening," – he had to pause to kiss her temple – "is that I am all too acutely aware of my own…imperfections…and I _am_ concerned that they may impinge upon the happiness you so deserve…but of course, the _reason_ I'm so concerned is precisely because I love you so desperately, and – oh, you will marry me on Sunday, won't you?"  
The girl with her arms around him finally gave the most beautiful, radiant smile – and there was not a trace of uncertainty in it.  
"Of course I will, Anthony."  
She pressed her lips to his cheek.

After a moment, he turned his head to look about.  
"Shall we, err, take a seat, perhaps?"  
Edith nodded, and led them the few steps to the edge of her bed. Sitting down, she dabbed at her teary eyes with the back of one hand, and offered a sheepish little laugh at her discomposure. The gentleman smiled tenderly in response, squeezing the hand he held on his knee. He found he could do little more than stare at her, given this moment to do so. Then Edith lowered her eyes in a manner that he _should_ have thought suspiciously innocent, had he not been so entirely bewitched by the very sight of her.

"You know," Edith began, "for a minute there, I thought I was going to have to ask for my glove back."

Anthony blanched, completely thrown for a second – and then he felt the colour flare in his cheeks. "What?"  
That clever girl gave a knowing smile. "You know," she said lightly, "the grey one you've been carrying around for months."  
"Ah. Yes…"  
He'd never felt so caught red-handed. "Well, I – ah – I couldn't seem to – find the right moment, to, err, return it to you…"

Meeting her eyes ashamedly, Anthony saw immediately that this was not quite the confession she'd been hoping for – and of course, it wasn't the whole truth. Hadn't he just resolved to always be open with her?  
"…_and_ I liked to have a piece of you with me always."

The glowing smile that rewarded his honesty was more than adequate compensation for any embarrassment; and Anthony wondered why he wasn't _always_ so shameless in his adoration, when it reaped such pretty benefits. Fairly grinning, he brought her hand to his lips – relishing the fact that she was, for some reason, gloveless at present.

"Well," his lady smiled, "marry me and you can have the whole package; gloves and all."  
"Speaking of which," Anthony returned, attempting to force a little sobriety through giddy bliss – he was all extremes of emotion, these days – "I hear you've been causing quite the stir, my love."

He didn't even try to stop himself adding endearments to his every address – it was a sweet indulgence after the day they'd had, and it made her smile so prettily. Even when there was a definite nervousness in her eyes.

"Yes," Edith nodded, stiffening slightly. "I'm afraid I was rather…blunt…with my father, and Granny. _Well_, the way they've treated you…"  
Her brow creased into a frown – that she probably didn't _intend_ to seem adorable – and he patted her hand in a measure to soothe. She managed a smile, briefly.  
"So I may just have made things harder for you. I'm not sure how best to handle it…"  
Anthony pressed her hand comfortingly between his good hand and his knee, and offered his most reassuring smile. It wasn't even an act – things felt so _possible_, now.

"Well," he began, "as tempted as I am by the idea of whisking you away tonight and running off to the Mediterranean forever…"  
Edith looked almost hopeful at that, and Anthony felt the need to hurry on – this woman could probably convince him to anything, this evening.  
"…this is your home, Edith – this county is _our_ home – and we mustn't sever all ties if we can help it. You asked me, earlier, whether a life together at Locksley sounded like a meagre compromise – and of course, what I should have said is that it sounds to me like the best of all possible worlds."

Her smile at that was nearly the undoing of him – but no, they had important decisions to make. He had things to assure her of.  
"But even when we have that life – which we _will_ – I know you'll want to escape Locksley every now and then, and take tea with your family – when you tire of your besotted husband." That significant noun demanded a smiling pause, and Anthony had to take a breath before continuing.  
"So – if you agree – I think we ought to go downstairs, and I'll request an audience with your father. We can talk this all out, honestly. It has to be done."

Edith nodded, more resolutely than she probably felt, looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite pick. Then she shook her head – slowly, almost in wonderment.

"You're so good for me, Anthony," she sighed, pressing his good hand between both of hers. "I'm sure I'd be horribly impetuous and unsteady and…_snarky_, without your…calming influence."  
"On the contrary, my darling," he disagreed. "I have no doubt that without me you'd be the same strong, intelligent woman. But I'd _so _much prefer for you to be a strong intelligent woman _with_ me."  
That candid affirmation made Edith smile gratefully, and she raised a hand to touch his face. "As would I. See, you can be really quite perceptive, under the right influence."

Her teasing smile faded, then – and Anthony's eyes fell to her rosy lips. He needed to kiss her – he'd wanted to desperately ever since he'd set foot in the room – but now he _needed_ to. He could feel, beneath his palm, the warm smoothness of her shoulder; and what with the way her fingers stroked at his cheek it was an effort not to pull her tight against him. As it was, the sudden urgency was mutual.

The warmth of her lips was the sweetest shock, after hours of cold fear – a murmur of approval escaped him, and she shuffled a little closer along the bed. Her mouth tasted faintly of brandy, and, oh_…_

She broke the kiss – too soon – only to smile against his mouth.  
"Besotted husband, hmm?" Edith mused, her tone so rich and warm it made him feel heady. "I like the sound of that…"  
"Mmm," Anthony agreed, eyes falling closed again as he insisted on tasting the curve of those lips once more. He wasn't about to resist the urge, given that, an hour ago, he'd feared he might never be allowed to again. And wasn't she just so divinely _kissable_?

Edith's fingers stroked along his jaw, below his ear …and when they slipped into the hair at the nape of his neck, to trace teasing circles, Anthony felt himself shiver. He forced himself to pull back then; gently, and reluctantly.  
"We, err," – he cleared his throat – "we'd probably better be getting downstairs."  
One more, chaste kiss.  
"If your family came upon us like this, I might not get the_ chance_ to astound them with my verbal dexterity."

A laugh escaped her then – real delight working free from the nervousness that had once more descended. Edith nodded reluctantly, and pulled away, sighing to pull herself together.  
"Mm – I'd like to avoid an all-out brawl, if possible."  
Getting to her feet, she fixed him with an expression of feigned sternness; and he shrugged lightly, joining her.  
"But of course, darling. We gentlemen settle things with guns, like civilised people."  
That earned him another chuckle – but they both knew that this banter was covering a very real concern. Anthony recognised her rising agitation in the distracted way she cast about for her gloves.

"I must look a fright," she muttered absently, dabbing at her tear-stained eyes and tugging the white silk up to her elbows.  
Anthony didn't move, but fixed with her with a calm, honest gaze.  
"You look _lovely_," he told her, quietly. The way he said it made her look up – and she gave the loveliest, grateful smile for his straight-faced tenderness.

He moved around the bed to join her by the vanity. Edith was raising her hands to pat down her curls, and the gentleman leaned a little to the side that he might inspect his tie. It wouldn't do to face her parents looking slipshod…

He looked up from checking his jacket to find Edith's reflection regarding him warmly; and, as he smiled back into the mirror, Anthony suspected that they were_ both_ struck by the sweet domesticity of it. This wouldn't be the last time they would stand together, checking their appearances before an entrance – and that, in itself, was something of a miracle.

"Right," began Anthony, squaring his shoulders. "Shall we?"  
His love nodded, breathing deeply, and led the way out through her bedroom door.

They descended the grand staircase hand in hand – very conscious of the picture they made, despite the fact that they could barely be visible in the dark hallway. They resisted the self-defensive instinct to soften their footfalls.

It was strangely easy for Anthony to hold his head high, as they made towards the drawing room. What it came down to, he supposed, was the fact that he had somehow won this marvellous woman – and he simply couldn't afford to be weak now, for fear of losing her.

The Anthony Strallan who strode across Downton's hall was no longer simply a gentleman – he was _her_ gentleman, now.

Between the two of them and her family stood Carson, in the doorway – looking particularly stern and not exactly approving. But of course, the fastidious butler would not speak out of turn. This knowledge did not seem much comfort to Edith, however, who gave her fiancé an apprehensive glance.  
Anthony looked down at her, and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.  
"Trust me…"  
"Always."

Then their entrance was being announced, and Anthony led the way inside, his hand still firmly clasped in Edith's.  
"Sir Anthony Strallan," Carson announced. "And Lady Edith."  
"Good evening, Lady Grantham, Lord Grantham."

A startled silence had fallen over the room – but in the corner by the fireplace, where Mrs. Crawley and Mrs. Levinson sat just beyond the reach of the Dowager Countess, that silence quickly developed into knowingly-raised eyebrows and…well, close attention. In fact, Mrs. Crawley looked positively thrilled.  
"Will there be a duel, do you think?" she whispered giddily to Martha, who scoffed; and the Dowager Countess shot them a scornful glance.  
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she sniffed, "they're neither of them Edmund Dantès."  
"Would you prefer a Dantès for Edith?" returned Isobel feistily, rising to the meet tone of her old sparring partner. "I never thought you so impractical. And anyway, we've moved on to pistols, this century."  
Martha nearly choked on her wine.

Moving far enough into the room to stand with Edith at the edge of the circle of chairs, Anthony nodded respectfully to each of his hosts – and decided to continue while the element of surprise had still won him silence from the patriarch.

"I hope you'll forgive my arriving unexpectedly – but it was necessary, as I was given to understand that Edith was upset. And, now that we've talked a few things over, I wonder if I might have a brief discussion with _you_. With all of you."

Something in Anthony's tone implied that it wasn't _exactly_ a request, and Lord Grantham could only nod a trifle brusquely. With a turn of his head to encompass all of his audience – including the Dowager Countess, by the fire – the gentleman continued.

"I am aware – from discussions with Edith, and also, I must say, from my own experience – that there is some disagreement over whether or not I will make a suitable husband for your daughter."  
He felt Edith grip his hand a little tighter – whether in nervousness or encouragement, he couldn't afford to check.  
"The concern you have is one which – as I have often expressed to you, in particular, Lord Grantham – I completely understand, and indeed, respect. However…although I respect it, I must suggest that it is not the only factor to be considered."  
He was sure he_ heard_ the Dowager Countess stiffen. Robert Crawley certainly blinked.

"I refer, of course, to the (pivotal) importance of Edith's opinion on the matter – with which I believe we have now all been well-acquainted."  
In the corner, Mrs. Levinson smirked – and the gentleman hoped that Edith recognized the support he meant to give her.

"As you know, your daughter is a bright, intelligent young woman; and, given the chance, she can make a very good argument to back her decision. But I hope you'll also set some stock by _my_ assurances – firstly, that I have every intention of keeping Edith as happy as it is within my power to keep her…and secondly, that those powers are not so limited as they might perhaps appear."

Lady Cora shifted in embarrassment; and Anthony tried to keep his expression soft, even faintly humorous – although certain repressed feelings of injustice _were_ beginning to rise within him. But he fought such useless anger down – he was no longer at the mercy of these people, and there was no need to strike back. Only the need to claim what, by some miracle, was his.

"My injury is an inconvenience, but it is not insurmountable. All letters you have received from Locksley were written by my own left hand, for example. And, as you have seen, I can manage quite well at a dinner table – Edith will be in no way obliged to provide menial assistance. Furthermore, my living is comfortable enough that, should I in my old age come to require a wheelchair, I might afford one of those new mechanised ones, and get about myself."  
He paused for effect; but then, bizarrely, felt a smile tugging at his lips.

"That being said, I wouldn't put it past your daughter to vandalise the thing, just so that she could continue pushing me about."

Anthony was rather surprised to find himself attempting humour at a moment like this. But then, it was so _true_ of his dear, funny Edith, and he knew her so well; and to declare so to her family was strangely warming. Next to him, Edith gave a watery laugh, ducking her head, and squeezed his hand between both of her smaller ones. Lady Cora looked as though she were just beginning to understand something – and as though that something pleased her very much.

"And even if these things did _not_ weigh in the favour of our leading a happy life together," Sir Strallan pressed on, afraid that if he paused his courage and eloquence might suddenly desert him, "well, the fact remains that Lady Edith is of age. As am I…"

On that rather pointed line, Anthony smiled straight ahead with a calm, impervious humour; and as she stared at him it struck Edith quite forcefully that, just as he was confessing to his age, her fiancé had never seemed so…youthfully charming. She almost wanted to laugh.

"And as such, we _are_ quite entitled and capable of choosing to marry. I do respect your parental concerns, sincerely – but I also love Edith entirely too much to deny her – and I would be a fool to turn down such happiness when freely offered. I hope that you will understand – or tolerate, at the least."

Anthony paused a moment, and took a fortifying breath.

"And lastly – whether or not the prospect truly thrills you, I know that it would mean a great deal to bothEdith _and myself_ if you would, still, attend our wedding on Sunday. I do hope that you'll consider it – yourself included, Lady Grantham."

The Dowager Countess regarded him steadily, as he inclined his head in sincere, dignified deference – and then she sniffed.

"I shan't 'consider it' – I shall come. For Edith."  
Beside him, Edith's shoulders heaved in joyous relief. The Dowager turned to address to her son, and his warmly-smiling wife.  
"There are worse fools in the county, after all," she shrugged indulgently, and Anthony gave a crooked smile.  
"Thank you, Lady Grantham," he nodded graciously.

Robert Crawley turned back to his prospective son-in-law, watched him for a moment, and then raised an eyebrow – as though determined to at least be irritable about it, if he was going to have to concede.  
"How did you get here, anyway?"

For the first time since he'd entered the drawing room, Anthony felt himself hesitate. It would be wretched to get Tom in any trouble, after all the young man had done…  
But Edith stepped in for him, squaring her shoulders.  
"My brother-in-law brought him to me," she explained, her tone quite brimming with pride.  
"Which brother-in-law, I wonder?" Mrs. Crawley mused.  
"Which brother-in-law was a chauffeur?" returned Robert darkly; but Cora shook her head, refusing to do anything but smile.  
"I hope you'll thank Tom tomorrow," she looked to her daughter, who nodded.

Anthony gazed between them; and felt it was probably time to move.  
"Well," he said, "thank you very much, for seeing me. I'll be leaving now – apologies again for the lateness of the hour – and I expect I shall be seeing you all tomorrow. Good evening."  
"_Thank you _Papa, Granny…Mama…_all_ of you," Edith lingered to reiterate, so warmly and earnestly that Anthony was touched by her obvious filial love – and he hoped he wasn't the only one. Then the fiancés turned and, each seemingly unable to let go of the beloved hand that they'd gripped for terrifying minutes, escaped into the darkened hall.

The door shut behind them, sealed with Carson's sober stare; and though the breathless glance between them was enraptured, they seemed to agree instinctively that words should wait until they were beyond the house's bounds. By the time he'd tugged her out of the front door to stand on the gravel of the drive, the breathless laughter that bubbled up inside them was irrepressible. They stood just inside the shadow of the house, the moonlight beyond catching the hem of Edith's dress.

The woman he would marry shook her head laughingly. She was looking up at him with an intense admiration, that was reiterated in the way she clutched the arm that clutched hers; half-embracing.  
"You were _marvellous_," she glowed, and Anthony felt he really might burst with pride.  
"I only wish I could have seen your half of the act," he returned, his fingers stroking lightly above her elbow – but Edith scoffed, and gave a rather pained look.  
"Oh, but it was nowhere _near_ as charming," she insisted.

With the way she smiled at him then, he felt almost drunk – or at least rather flushed – and Anthony knew it would be foolish to push his luck by lingering. He had already pushed the Crawley pride to its limits once in the past hour.

"I promised your father I'd be going," he reminded her, with the most sincere reluctance – but had hardly managed to pull away an inch before Edith clutched at his arm again.  
"Oh, but – wait with me till the car comes round, at least," she insisted sweetly; and that was more than enough to persuade the gentleman.

"You know…" he mused, sidling closer again, and letting his hand slide up Edith's arm in the most indulgent way, "I think I might walk."  
She actually pulled away in order to stare at him. "To Locksley?"  
"Well, my dear," he murmured, feeling quite giddy – but attempting to divert it into suaveness – "I'm not _entirely_ decrepit just yet, you know."  
"I've noticed," the woman returned, with such a coy little smile that he felt his pulse quicken.  
"And anyway," Anthony continued, "it would be a shame to disturb Tom, when I imagine he's having a well-earned rest. Or Pratt, even. No, I'd like to walk. It's a lovely evening."  
Consciously or otherwise, Edith's hands tightened on his forearms at all this talk of his leaving. It was so very sweet.  
_Such sweet sorrow_, he thought idly, feeling happier than he'd surely ever felt.

"Well, be careful, won't you?"  
Anthony smiled. "You needn't worry, darling – it's not as though Yorkshire is exactly crawling with bandits – and at any rate, I feel as though I could take on an entire band of brigands single-handed, this evening."

That earned him a warm laugh – he knew she was relieved to hear him making light of his one-armed-ness – and he could no longer resist tugging her close. She was, after all, the source of this new power. Edith softened against him, hands coming up to rest on his broad shoulders – and the gentleman sighed to feel her nestling as close as she could. He only resented his bad arm inasmuch as it prevented closer contact.

"I'm sorry I rather reverted to theatrics," Edith murmured into his lapel, her breath warm even through starched fabric.  
"Not at all, dearest," he assured her, voice pleasantly muffled by her forehead. "It all needed to be said. And we know now, don't we? You're sure of me?"  
"I always was."

There was nothing he could possibly say to that; so Anthony ducked his head, to nuzzle tenderly at the soft skin of her cheek, her ear. Her perfume was so enticing…  
Edith shivered slightly, as his nose, his lips grazed along her neck…and when he pulled back she was wearing the most beautiful expression of breathlessly-thrilled surprise, to find him so demonstrative all of a sudden. Anthony smiled, his good hand tightening at the curve of her waist. Oh, they could steal a few more minutes, couldn't they? They'd earned it, in tears and worry.

Standing there with Edith Crawley pressed against him, with nothing but the sounds of the night and their own breathing in his ears, it struck Anthony that he felt…new. It was as if he'd suddenly been granted clarity of vision; as if he'd somehow been underwater until tonight. Now he could really _see_ the delicate blush rise to Edith's cheeks, and believe that _he_ put it there – could feel each tiny tremor in her frame when he caressed her. And in the warm night, he caught the scent of her skin more than ever.

She seemed more _his_ than she had ever been. And oh, he was so completely hers.

"I love you," Anthony reminded her; because it was only the only phrase he could think of, and by God did he mean it. Edith smiled, her fingers sliding back and forth across his shoulders.  
"And I love you – in case you haven't noticed."  
She tilted her head to match his height – and those sweetly curving lips were much too tempting. Anthony leant close to meet her.

And he let himself kiss her as he wanted to – slowly, and thoroughly, with promise in every brush of his lips on hers. It was no deeper than any of their previous kisses, and yet Anthony felt an unmistakable heat rise within him. Perhaps, he dared to hope, she felt it too; as seconds passed her lips softened under his, and by the time he forced himself to pull away she was quite clinging to him.

"I wish you didn't have to go," Edith whispered, breathlessly – and rather superfluously, given the way she was leaning in to him – and Anthony nodded in genuine empathy. The evening's drama had only served to intensify every feeling tenfold.  
"Mmm. Though, in two days' time, I won't have to. Or, rather, you'll be with me. Lady Strallan."  
"Don't call me that until I am, please," she protested, quite adorably; and then her frown deepened. "_Two days_…"  
The gentleman chuckled, still flattered by her eagerness.  
"We can pass the time with taking tea and fretting, tomorrow," Anthony suggested, "and then on Sunday I suppose we'll be busy getting married."  
"I suppose so," she laughed, eyes sparkling.

"Now, I really _must_ go," the gentleman insisted – as much to himself as his fiancé – extricating himself reluctantly from her embrace with a kiss to her cheek.  
"Goodnight, my love. Sleep well. I shall see you tomorrow."  
"Goodnight, Anthony," the lady answered, hugging herself now that his body-heat had left her.

He only dared look back once, a few feet further down the moonlight drive – to see his darling wave, and disappear inside.

Anthony's step was light, across the neatly-mown grass.

* * *

Above the doors through which Edith had practically floated, a lamp glowed softly in the window of the billiard room.

"It's revolting, really," Mary decided, smiling broadly.  
"Oh yes," Sybil agreed – barely reigning in a giggle. "It's absolutely sickening."

* * *

An owl hooted in a country lane, as the light breeze picked up just a little, making oak leaves rustle softly; and a man strolled along beneath them, one hand thrust in his pocket. His shoulders were curved a little against the coming chill, but his step was light – and he did not appear to be in any hurry.

In fact, when he came to a loosely chained gate, the man stopped altogether; and just…looked. At the way the breeze tousled the grass, at the way shadows fell at midnight – at the way the world looked, in that moment.

With an open smile about his face that most of his neighbours would hardly have recognised, Anthony Strallan unlatched the gate, and pushed it open. It was his field, after all. It might've been his_ world_, for the way he felt.

And for the first time in a good few decades, Anthony lay down beneath the open sky. There was no one there to see Sir Strallan engaging in such rustic behaviour – he'd glanced about to check that no young lovers had decided on something similar. He wouldn't have blamed them, on a night so beautiful as this. Why, if Edith were with him…

Anthony shook his head, grinning, and let it fall back against the soft grass.

He hadn't stargazed this way himself since…not since his father was alive. It had been their practice, something shared – to put theory to practise and look for constellations in the sky itself, transferred from the neat maps on dry pages. It was so calming, to be still this way, and to reflect on the way things were.

The last time Anthony had felt the earth beneath his back, he'd been in the hell of war – and it had almost made him forget that there were other ways to lie on the ground. That the world was beautiful, and still his. But it was – and not his alone.

What had changed, to make him feel the way he did? Proof that he was not too weak to fight for himself, and his beloved? Certainty that he could earn the love he'd been given? Those enlivening, heart-thudding kisses, perhaps?

Or the knowledge that, for all of that, there was much more yet to come?

Perhaps he'd never quite be able to summarise it – after all, he was only a man. But he _was_ a man.

And Sir Anthony Strallan had never been more grateful to be the particular man that he was.

* * *

_**A/N: **Well, there we are. I hope you approve! Either way, I had to write it - because they both deserve happiness so much, don't they?_

_This marks the end-point of anything that resembles drama or 'plot' - but naturally my imagination is wont to run away with me, so there's likely to be at least an epilogue, if not also an extra chapter of what I've taken to thinking of as "pointless happiness" (also commonly known as PWP, I believe...) So do stick around for that, if you're at all inclined._

_But at any rate, I must thank you - for staying with me for over 30,000 words (!) of build-up and polite dialogue! It's an absolute pleasure to share my self-indulgent imaginings, and your encouragement has been marvellous. Thank you!_

_~ Genevieve_


	9. Chapter 8

**_AUTHOR'S NOTE: _**_Firstly - profuse, sincere apologies for the wait. It's been a busy month or so (graduation, Christmas, new job, insert-excuse-here) but I'm finally back, bearing the penultimate chapter! And secondly - thank you very much (as ever) for your kind reviews, your generous interest, and particularly your admirable patience!_

_If I may draw your attention to the top left of the page, you'll notice that I've changed the story's cover image - the illustration you see was a Christmas gift from WisdomState (my beta, and artiste extraordinaire), depicting a moment from Chapter Four. Isn't it just beautiful?_

_Also - this chapter brings us firmly into an M-rating. Now, I realise that increasing the story's set rating will make it harder to find in the database - and the previous 34,000 words are fairly tame...so maybe I don't need to change the whole thing...? (However, I'm perfectly willing to, if I should - feedback would be appreciated on this point. I haven't been in this situation before - or written quite this sort of chapter, as it happens.)_

_This may be the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written. But I also like to think I'm indulging Edith & Anthony, because my goodness, don't they deserve it?  
I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

The next two days did not pass quickly.

That is, the Saturday was all sweetly-torturous anticipation and last-minute panic; and the Sunday of the wedding itself was such a haze of exhilaration and feeling that they wondered whether it were really happening at all.

But apparently, it was. After a sumptuous wedding breakfast at Downton, Sir and Lady Strallan were ushered out to the Rolls (Tom and Matthew instigating a round-two of rice-throwing) and driven off toward Locksley by Sampson – who smiled more broadly that day than Edith had previously believed him capable.

Rather than follow an exhausting day with extensive travel, the couple had decided to spend their first two nights at Locksley. The honeymoon-proper would begin when they left for the port at Liverpool – and from there to…'Europe'. That was still as much as Anthony would reveal (and considering the holidaying habits of the British aristocracy, it was hardly much of a revelation at all).

Old Sampson hurried to stand at post by the front door, as the master and mistress entered Locksley together, the first time. It would have been hard to say which one was smiling the brighter.

"Welcome home, Lady Strallan," said Anthony, to his wife.

* * *

Hours later, Edith stirred in the darkness – uncomfortably warm. Her back was pressed against a masculine chest, and she felt the prickle of sweat on her skin at their combined temperature. A wayward curl was threatening to fall into her eyes; but her arm was obstructed by the larger one curled around her.

It was _wonderful_.

She tried willing herself to stop being such a child about it, but it was no use – she didn't _want_ to. She was absorbed by the sweet strangeness of being weighed down by a masculine arm; of having a large hand rest against her stomach. Never in her life had Edith slept this way, until tonight.

She found she was acutely aware of every little, insignificant way they touched – not only his arm about her waist, but just her heel against his shin – and, thus surrounded by her Anthony, she felt…so very safe. Felt as though she need never know another lonely night.

Relishing the delicious aches in her body – and the indescribable warmth in her chest – Edith snuggled deeper into the soft pillow, and let herself drift off in the peaceful darkness.

* * *

The next day – their first as husband and wife – stretched green before them, beyond Locksley's newly-polished leadlight windows. Edith followed her husband to the dining room for breakfast; the idea of sitting up alone to take breakfast in bed seemed ridiculous, not to say anti-social. And she wouldn't have missed for the world the opportunity to have Mrs. Midge enquire 'whether Lady Strallan took sugar in her tea'. Everything about the house seemed so charming, that mild morning. And then there was its owner…

And he himself was quite _beyond_ charmed. Even for a 'morning person', Anthony had never been so giddily cheerful over breakfast as he was that morning. The flower arrangements Mrs. Midge had had done for the table were lovely – and his wife was ten times lovelier. The man could only _try_ not to grin too foolishly.

"So, what would you like to do today?"  
Looking up from buttering a crumpet, Edith's eyebrows raised to find she was being deferred to. She smiled in pleased surprise.  
"Oh, err… Well, why don't we take a drive – or a walk – around Locksley? I've only really seen the orchard. If _you'd_ like, that is."  
It was strange – having been second-in-line for the whole of her life, Edith felt almost greedy in putting forth her preference. She'd get used to it, she supposed.

"I'd like that very much," her husband smiled, taking a sip of his tea. "Actually, there's a few lovely spots I'd like to show you. Perhaps we'd better take the car."  
The enthusiasm catching, Edith grinned. "And why don't we take a picnic?"  
"Perfect," said Anthony. By which he meant, _'I love you'_.

* * *

There could not, the man decided, be anything more beautiful than Lady Edith Strallan under a tree.

His wife; in a lavender day-dress with hat wantonly discarded, gazing about the land he loved as though she loved it too. Anthony marvelled at the miracle before him.

"I wish I had a camera."  
Turning her head to find her husband openly admiring her, Edith glowed – then busied herself picking through the wicker basket.  
"Wouldn't the poor photographer begin to feel rather the third wheel, after a while?" she teased; and Anthony chuckled, moving to join her at the foot of an oak.  
"Ah, yes. Good point."  
He sighed contentedly.

"You know," Edith mused, retrieving a plum and a sandwich, "we really live in a beautiful part of the world. It's so easy to forget, when all you do is rush from house to house; paying calls and having dinners and relentlessly pursuing lovely gentlemen," – Anthony snickered at her reference – "but the countryside around here really is just gorgeous. And Locksley is perfectly situated. I'm terribly lucky."

By the steady way her husband was smiling at her, Edith guessed that she had said rather the right thing. Anthony did have one point of correction, however.

"_We_ are terribly lucky, I think you mean to say."

* * *

Edith was – almost – perfectly comfortable. Her bed had been neatly turned down; the sheets felt crisp and the covers had a pleasant weight to them, and the nightdress she wore was freshly pressed. In fact, it was all so cosy that she might well have dropped off to sleep, were it not for the fact that her mind was much less still than her body was.

She wondered absently whether it was quite appropriate to be lying there on the second evening of her married life, quite unable to stop thinking about the_ first_. Not that propriety had much say anymore, in the privacy of Locksley's rooms – which was a relief. After that pivotal, painfully-romantic evening at Downton Abbey, it had been no easy feat to keep their mutual adoration in check. Thinking of that – and their subsequent wedding, and oh, her _life _– a smile spread across Edith's face, and she bit at her lip. Then she looked about the room again, restlessly.

He _would_ come to her, wouldn't he? Or was it perhaps the done thing for her to go _his_ room, after the first evening? Surely there was no such protocol…

Perhaps, if he didn't knock in five more minutes…or two…

_A little eager, there, aren't we? _Edith chided herself – though she was still quite unable to keep from smiling at her own wanton foolishness. At the reason for it.

She had just settled down again, when – at last – there came a knock at the door. Edith's head snapped up from the pillow and she propped herself on an elbow – trying not to look _excessively_ eager.  
"Come in…"

The door opened, and her husband entered – a rather fetching vision in robe and pyjamas.  
"Hello again," said Anthony, smiling at her for a moment before he turned to shut the door.  
"Hello," she returned, just as warmly.  
His damaged arm hung at his side, unsupported by a sling; and soon he was shrugging out of his robe, with hardly any difficulty. Edith simply watched him; and, when she was caught in doing so, smiled and shuffled over in bed to make room.

Soon Anthony lay down in the space she had previously occupied; and the sweet domesticity of arranging the covers, of sharing a pillow, of feeling body-heat through skin-warmed cotton…it all made Edith smile like a fool. Anthony seemed no less pleased, come to that.

As was becoming habit, she positioned his damaged arm around her shoulders; and his good hand quickly settled at her hip.

Edith had never really thought it before, but a silence could actually be _cosy_. This silence definitely was; made of smiles and breathing and the rustle of sheets. All settled now, Anthony pressed a kiss to his wife's hairline.

"You're happy with your room, then?"  
"I'm happy with everything."  
"Goodness, you _are_ easily pleased."  
His tone was so warm – so very contented.

"However," Edith began, trailing her fingers absently across his chest, "don't you think it's about time you told me where we're going on our honeymoon? We do leave tomorrow, don't we?"

She surprised even herself with the sly, coaxing sweetness in her tone – and the reluctance that Anthony feigned was belied by a grin. He spoke slowly, then, with a teasing casualness; as though he were unwrapping a present before her eyes.  
"Well, dearest," – his hand began to stroke along her back – "what would you say to two weeks in Rome…then Florence…then, err, Venice?"

Edith's thrilled smile had broadened further with each successive revelation – and now she threw herself against her husband – half on top of him – in an embrace. Anthony was rather pleased with himself, grinning into her hair.  
"I chose well, then?"  
She pulled back to meet his eyes.  
"Anthony, it's perfect! And so _romantic_…" She tried to look surprised.  
"Yes, well, you bring out the worst in me, my dear."  
"Evidently."

Settling back to toy with his collar again, Edith's brow suddenly creased into an earnest frown. "But you know, don't you, that there's no need for gestures? That I'd be perfectly happy for our honeymoon to be a month of days like this at Locksley – just so long as we were together."  
Comfortably reclined, Anthony raised an eyebrow, apparently amused.  
"You're laying it on a bit thick there, darling."  
"No, I mean it!" she replied, almost indignantly – something of the old, insecure Edith coming out. Her husband's expression softened immediately.  
"I know you do, love; I'm teasing."  
He kissed her.  
"And now _you're_ teasing," he observed, as she hovered over him; pressing light kisses to the corners of his mouth, but conscientiously resisting his attempts at anything more.  
"Turnabout is fair, they say."  
"Another of your dangerous progressive ideas," he mumbled into her lips, feigning disapproval – and soon the laughter that Anthony couldn't quite repress was silenced by a sound kiss.

It was all smiles at first, lips curving together – and then those smiles gave way to softly-breathed sighs and approving murmurs. Edith was surprised (almost embarrassed) by how immediately she wanted her husband. In the space between two kisses heat flared up in her cheeks, and already she was burning for him. To think that just last night, all this had been unfamiliar territory…

But after such a wonderful day, in which _she_ had been allowed to choose their every activity – in which she'd practically had to cajole him out of _excessive_ generosity – to be touched so very tenderly was potent in the extreme. Edith felt…small and feminine, against his broad frame. She felt _his_. And she had never, never felt so loved.

The way he touched her, the way he kissed, it all made her need to draw in quick breaths – but those breaths, in turn, only seemed to stoke the heat inside her, and spread too warmly through her chest. Oh, she just…needed…well, him.

How he could make her feel so _held_, with only one operative arm – with just one hand to her face – Edith had no idea. In fact, she didn't seem to have very many ideas at all, just at present…except that the removal of clothing was imperative.

She was distracted even from that, however, when Anthony's fingers trailed from her brow to her cheek, to her neck…slipped into her hair, to trace light circles on her scalp. Trailed down, across her barely-covered shoulder…to brush across a breast, teasing a little.

He seemed somehow less…restrained in his attentions, on this, their second evening. Where the night before he'd touched her with a tender, patient caution, his caresses now grew a little more exploratory – unrepentantly eager. It was…delicious. She almost sighed in disappointment when his hand strayed back to her face – but then, that was so lovely too.

He couldn't keep from touching her long, apparently – and for Edith it was a blissful sort of agitation, wanting his caresses everywhere at once. She was struck by a strange, paradoxical tension; one part of her revelled in how much _time_ they had – wanted to linger and indulge in every little caress – yet she was also growing increasingly desperate for…_more_, immediately.

Then Anthony growled softly – and she couldn't tell whether the frustration was pleasurable or genuine. Lips by her ear, he muttered apologetically, "I wish I had two hands…" and it became clear. It was a touchingly honest complaint; he could hide nothing from her, now.

Edith made a noise of sympathy, and kissed his jaw – then, suddenly realizing he might take that as agreement, she whispered, "If you _did_, I might swoon dead away."  
She hoped he wouldn't think she was being callous – but then, the way she shivered under his fingers should have been evidence of her sincerity. And to her relief, he did seem flattered – even faintly amused.  
"Darling…" was all he said. And then he continued kissing her.

Anthony's breathing turned ragged again, between their kisses. That he could _really_ be affecting her this way…that she could _possibly_ want his touch as much as he wanted to touch her…it was incredible. And yet, he could require no further evidence than what lay so wonderfully before him.

And her fingers were working into his shirt…

"Please, Anthony," she breathed, between kisses that she was in fact giving as much as taking, "can we…take this off you?"  
"If you…stop…kissing me long enough."  
"Gosh," she murmured, "you drive a hard bargain."  
He chuckled deliciously against her mouth, and moved to sit up a little. Edith loved making him laugh – she always had.

She didn't want to sober the moment – but then, dealing with the complicated business of his shirt now (while she could still bear to pull away from him long enough to do so) seemed like a wise idea. She offered a smile as she sat up to work at his buttons.

Funny, but easing the shirt from his damaged arm didn't feel _at all_ pragmatic or clinical – quite the opposite. She was, after all, undressing her husband – and that was about the least dull thing Edith could think of, at this moment.  
_Well, almost…_

Settling back again, torso so pleasingly bare, Anthony fixed her with an innocent smile.  
"Turnabout…" he prompted, sweetly.  
It took her a moment to catch his reference – and then a decidedly unladylike laugh escaped her lips. He was so…surprising, when they were alone. And, at the very same time, he set her so at ease – so that it was with a glittering, faux-begrudging smile that Edith reached for the hem of her nightgown.

Divesting herself of the garment and tossing it to the floor, she quickly snuggled down under the covers again – as much to be close to him as to hide her nakedness. Anthony's approval was obvious; his good arm encircled her, pulling her closer. And the feeling of his warm skin against hers…it was divine. Strange, that something so simple could feel so very good.

"How did I ever get so lucky…?" the man mused, growing serious as he fell in awe of the beauty before him. His fingers trailed the smooth skin of her side, and Edith shivered – but her wits had not deserted her just yet.  
"I'd say that you deserve me," she replied, "but that'd cast aspersions on your character."  
Her husband huffed a laugh, taken off-guard by her humour, and shook his head.  
"Oh, stop it. You know you're marvellous."

And he gave her reason to believe it; leaning in to nuzzle the tender skin of her neck, trailing his lips down to her collarbone, breathing an involuntary 'mmm' as he inhaled the sweet scent of her. Eyes fixed arbitrarily on the ceiling, Edith beamed, blushed…bit her lip when she felt his arousal against her thigh. Oh, he was wonderful. And he thought _she_ was.

Yes, this was what it was to be married – the tender brush of lips on skin, the hitch of stuttered breath, and the feeling that nothing could exist beyond these covers.

Slim fingers stroking his shoulders in encouragement, Edith wished she'd had the courage to remove his pyjama pants as well, earlier. Still, they'd find a moment, no doubt…

What with the way his lips now ventured below her collarbone, and the way Edith's caresses grew ever more emboldened, a sense of urgency was definitely rising between them. So much so that, when Anthony shifted his good arm for support as he moved to lean over her, it took her a moment to register his gasp. But he stilled suddenly, and Edith knew something wasn't quite right.

"What is it?"  
The man cleared his throat, shifting a little gingerly; and in the dim light she thought she could see a slight flush to his cheeks.  
"Nothing," he shook his head dismissively, clearly embarrassed. "Just my back."  
Anthony grimaced – in pain or mortification, or perhaps in both. "Must've been all that picnicking today," he added wryly, self-effacing as ever. But Edith knew her husband – so, when he tried to resume his attentions, she put a firm hand to his shoulder.

"Can I help?" she murmured sweetly, pressing her curves against him in aid of her cause. "I'd like to…"  
Surely he'd know that she was sincere.

Anthony _was _mortified – to have his old body play up, when just on the point of making love to such a breath-taking creature. But he was also very much at her mercy; and he could deny her nothing when his heart was already racing, when those irresistible curves were pressed so enticingly against him. With a resolutely-apologetic sigh, Anthony guided her hand around to the twinge in his lower back.

Edith began to massage, applying soothing pressure; and Anthony was astounded (grateful) to find that this setback did not in fact seem to have changed the direction of things in the slightest. There was nothing _at all_ clinical about the way Edith's fingers pressed into his flesh, the way she breathed against his shoulder… and with every second that passed her ministrations became less necessary and more delicious. There was simply no room for embarrassment, with everything else that she was making him feel.

Edith Strallan had to be some kind of miracle. How was it that she could so soothe him, while simultaneously exciting him to distraction?

It was still so new, having her with him like this – and he couldn't help but groan.

"You _angel_…"  
Her eyes flicked up to meet his; a subtle smile playing about her lips.  
"I don't feel like one…"_  
_Laughter rumbled deep in his chest, and Anthony pulled her up for a kiss.  
"Mmm, no," he murmured against her lips, "you're much too wonderfully tangible…"  
And he revelled in the truth of that; testing the curve of her thigh, her rear, with his one good hand. Edith grinned against his mouth – but laughter couldn't hold sway for long, anymore. There was so much else to felt, and expressed.

Most of all, for Anthony, the great surge of love and desire aroused by his wife's tender ministrations demanded expression. With a hand at her hip, he nudged Edith onto her back, shifting as best as he could to stay close to her. The darling girl was careful of his damaged arm – although just now it didn't trouble him. And his good arm – that shifted to trace feather-light caresses up the inside of her thigh.

Realizing his intent, Edith gasped softly, and shivered in anticipation. Her husband smiled; risking aches tomorrow to put a little more weight on his useless shoulder and lean in. (There only ever seemed to be the present, in moments like this). His fingers trailing slowly ever higher, he teased them both with his restraint; but even gentleman Anthony Strallan was only human. Leaning in to press fervent, loving kisses to Edith's neck, he allowed his fingers to brush her intimately - and very nearly gasped as she did, to find her hot and wet. Just knowing he could do that to her…

Encouraged by her responsiveness, his coaxing fingers grew bolder, and soon she shivered exquisitely. God, she was beautiful like this.  
"I love you so," he whispered by her ear; though he was already telling her so with every stroke of his fingers.  
"_Ohh_, Iloveyoutoo," Edith managed, barely. Her husband grinned, kissed her temple; and hoped absently that he wouldn't die of contentment in the next few minutes, because there was no sight more breath-taking than his Edith in her pleasure.

Edith bit her lip – a stifled moan escaped regardless – and tried in vain to regulate her breathing.  
Would she ever get _used_ to this? She rather hoped not – she had never felt as good as Anthony could make her.  
"Relax, darling," he murmured, just as lovingly as he had the night before – and she might have felt foolish for needing him to repeat it, if her mind and body were not already so completely engaged. When pleasure overtook her, she hid her face in Anthony's shoulder – needing the warm solidness of him to cling to.

He held her as she shuddered – glad she'd positioned his ruined arm in an embrace – and the sound of her ecstasy stole his breath. As she calmed, Anthony pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.  
"Beautiful," he whispered – not entirely sure whether he was addressing her by the term or offering a descriptive adjective (the only one that was adequate).  
Charmingly flushed, Edith rolled back onto her side and into his chest, nestling into him. "You're wonderful," she murmured, against his collarbone.  
Anthony let his good hand stroke her back lazily, trying not to feel too inordinately pleased with himself. But then, what could be sweeter than giving her pleasure?

Her fingers strayed to the waistband of his pyjama pants, daring to curl underneath them at his hip.  
"Would you...take these off, dear?"

Was it really a request? They both knew he could not have denied her anything.

Anthony rolled away (reluctantly so, but seeing the necessity), and quickly stood to remove that last piece of clothing. Edith watched, unashamed – gone was last night's maidenly shyness, and in that moment she wanted him too much to feign it.

In fact, she would have quite liked to assist him in undressing; but she also sensed that feeling competent was important to her husband, particularly on these first evenings.  
Perhaps later, he would not object to some help with his trousers…  
She smirked mischievously at the prospect.

But her mind snapped back to the present when Anthony turned, climbing back into the bed beside her. She felt a flutter of excitement at having him completely bare: the intimacy of it, knowing this was just for her…and, well, he _was_ deliciously masculine (whether he knew it or not). Sliding closer with a womanly smile, Edith leaned in to press a kiss to the side of his neck – and felt him shiver. That was encouraging – and she had less reason to be timid now than on the evening previous.

Her lips working slowly upward towards his ear, she pressed close against him – he groaned at the friction, she sighed her enjoyment – and all the while her hand moved daringly lower. Anthony's breath caught when her fingers traced his hipbone, just as she whispered at his earlobe.  
"Turnabout…?"  
A wicked little smile graced her lips, but still Edith paused – unsure whether she was perhaps being a little _too_ wanton. She had not dared to touch him so intimately in the sweet shyness of the night before. Would he want her to, now?  
The ragged breath her husband exhaled was approval enough, as he caught her reference and her meaning. "Darling-"

Without knowing quite why, Edith found herself taking his earlobe between her teeth; and she relished the soft groan he gave in response.  
"Oh, Edith…"  
Anthony's chest rose and fell with urgent breaths; and she had never felt such potent affection, want, warm empathy…all at once. And oh, she wanted so very much to give him pleasure. He was always so good to _her_ – in every way.

When her fingers brushed across him, the effect was immediate. Anthony gasped, his head falling back into the pillow; and she felt an electric thrill at this new power. She stared at him in silent, loving wonder, as each successive stroke of her fingers elicited a new response.  
"Oh _God_, Edith…"  
She had never seen Anthony Strallan bite his lip before. It was quite provoking.

"I love you so," she murmured, echoing his earlier declaration.  
His good hand, which had gripped the sheet beneath him, now moved to arrest her hand; gently, but not without urgency.  
"Darling – oh, darling," he managed, breathing heavy as he raised her hand between them to kiss it ardently. "Please…I – want you…"  
His ragged tone sent a delicious thrill through Edith – to be so very _wanted_…

She smiled tenderly – no jokes, no artifice, only love – and rolled onto her back again; making sure not to restrict his damaged arm.

His good arm braced on the other side of her, Anthony shifted to move over his wife. The process was inelegant perhaps, but so very much worth the bother – and when he settled between her thighs they sighed in unison.

Pressed intimately against her, with only the sound of her breath in his ears – and confident that his weight was well-supported – Anthony made himself pause.  
Pause in the moment of aching want; in knowing the want will be satisfied. In the moment of being so very close to his dearest darling, and still having the wits to appreciate it.  
"My love…" he murmured, with an almost-painful tenderness; even as his hips angled of their own accord. Edith shifted beneath him, needing the closeness, and one delicate hand came up to weave in his hair.

"Anthony…"

It was the wanting way she said it that shattered his restraint – that, and the way her hips lifted to meet his own. And then all he knew was the delicious _warmth_ of her, her gasps, and the way she moved beneath him. Anthony moved as slowly, as carefully as he could – although the heat of his desire was demanding.

Gazing down at his beloved, he tried to gauge her response – was it pleasure, in those stuttered breaths? Or, was he hurting her, God forbid? Edith's eyes flickered open…and then a deep sigh escaped her.  
"Oh, darling…don't stop."

Such simple words; and yet, to hear _"don't stop" _from the lips of his beautiful Edith… It was somehow the most erotic thing that Anthony had ever known. He groaned, and gave himself over to the sweet warmth of her.

It would have been hard to say precisely who determined the pace; Edith's every moan and whimper spurred him on, which efforts only coaxed more ardent responses from her. With adoring gazes locked – save for those moments when pleasure forced their eyes shut – they moved together; wonderfully, beautifully _close_. Neither had ever felt closer to another human being than they did in that most intimate embrace.

Time, too, seemed immeasurable in those heady moments – but however many minutes had slipped away, Anthony felt it when his control began to falter. When his groans came out louder than intended, and he felt himself begin to hurtle towards completion. Edith had been shuddering beneath him, her golden curls in gorgeous disarray – but then her body arched demandingly, and Anthony thrilled to hear, to feel her losing herself in pleasure once again. It was not possible to hold out much longer; not when her nails dug into his back, and her hips surged to meet his. Burying his face in Edith's neck, at last he groaned with the release.

Arms draped loosely around her husband, Edith's chest heaved – and she was not particularly surprised to find that her eyes were damp. Of course they were; she had never felt so _much_, in the space of minutes. Not pain, anymore, not nervousness – but trust, and pleasure, and closeness, and such _love_…

Anthony, however, was startled to see the tears in her eyes; when, after some moments, he lifted his head from her shoulder.  
"Darling," he gasped, rather hoarsely, "did I hurt you?"  
The remorse in his eyes was so very earnest, it made her heart ache. Edith quickly shook her head.  
"Oh no, Anthony – just the opposite. Really," she added when he looked unconvinced, stroking his cheek in tender reassurance. Not entirely placated, her husband bent to kiss her eyelids – tasting the salt – and then together they moved to roll him to the side. They both missed the warm connection; but soon Edith nestled snug against him, skin slightly damp from their exertion, and his good arm stretched across to hold her. Anthony turned his head.

"Are you really alright?"  
"I'm _wonderful_."  
His mouth twisted into that familiar half-smile; and, fingers playing absently at his chest, Edith tried to explain. "I just…I never knew that _anything _could be…like that. I mean, I was sure we'd be good together, but still I…hadn't quite anticipated…"  
She trailed off, aware that she was rambling; and frankly, she was still too dazed to find the words for what she meant. She looked up to find Anthony regarding her tenderly – and Edith smiled, to know that she was understood.

Stretching up to kiss his cheek, Edith then settled down again with her head at his shoulder.  
"Are you comfortable?" she enquired lazily, feeling the first warm waves of sleep begin to claim her.  
"Very much so," her husband replied.  
"Mm. What time are we leaving, tomorrow?"  
"Ah, the train leaves at ten, I believe."  
"We'd best get some sleep, then." She snuggled deeper into the mattress. After a minute, she sighed. "You know, you make a really excellent pillow."  
"I'm only too happy to be of service," Anthony murmured, with offhand-politeness – and just the slightest hint of smug entendre. Edith smirked into his chest, and considered giving him a smack; but she was too warm and sleepy and entirely in love with the man to do anything but grin.  
"Sweet dreams, dearest."  
"And to you."

When Edith stirred in the early hours, she was not kept awake long by the warm presence of a man in her bed. He was comfortingly familiar, now. Her wonderful husband.

* * *

On their honeymoon, Anthony learned that Edith's hair dried quickly now that it was short; that she preferred apricot to raspberry; that she loved to dance; that she had a definite weakness for dark-eyed child buskers; that she was cautious of seafood; that wolf-whistles were not enough to prevent her from kissing him under the lamplight; and that a man would be well-rewarded for breathing spontaneous kisses into the curls at the nape of her neck.

And that was just the first week.

It was wonderful, having so much time just for the two of them. To get some air, to see the sights, and to have the luxury of long conversations unfettered by tea-time protocol. They both knew that, when they returned to Yorkshire, it would be much the same – but _they_ would be different. More joined. Sir Strallan and his Lady – the truest of friends, and lovers.

One evening in Rome – after a guided tour which (instead of being romantic) had ended up chaotic and hysterical, when their guide got into an argument with a restaurateur as to the city's most beautiful architecture, and they all had to share a bottle of his best vino to make up – Anthony embraced his wife, fingering the buttons at her back. After a minute, though, he huffed in irritation, realizing the effort was greater than he'd hoped.

"Heavens, how do you manage these things?" he wondered, as Edith reached around to aid his cause.  
"Well," she smiled pointedly, "I never used to be in quite such a hurry to get them off…"  
Anthony chuckled against her skin, where the dress began to slip from her pale shoulder. Then he inhaled deeply.  
"Mmm… A new perfume?"_  
_"The hotel soap," Edith corrected him, speaking quickly between little gasps. "Jasmine."

There was, Edith decided, something delicious in having a man be familiar with your scent. She belonged to him now, just as he belonged to her. The lightest touch served as a sweet reminder, night or day.

* * *

As she slipped beneath the bedclothes, a sigh escaped Lady Edith Strallan – and, for once, this was a sigh of weariness rather than contentment. It had been a busy day – wonderful, but busy. There had been so much to see that they'd kept up quite a pace – until they paused mid-afternoon for a refreshing gelato. In the shade at last, Edith had taken a moment to admire her rather dashing, cream-suited husband.

"I must say," she'd murmured, inclining her head towards Anthony as they'd waited in line, "you do sport that cap rather well."  
Her husband had raised his eyebrows, laughed; shaking his head even as a gratified smile curved his mouth. "Nonsense."  
"Excuse me, but I think _I'm_ to be the judge of a handsome man."  
He smirked, pretending to be only grudging in his agreement. "I'll give you that…darling."  
He had reached for her hand then, holding it in his own in a way that was so habitual now, so sweetly casual…and Edith had found herself hoping that every sun-kissed passer-by would notice that her hand was being held by that lovely, dapper gentleman.

Oh yes, it was lovely, all of it. So lovely, such an overwhelming rush of sight and sensation, that it was becoming a little exhausting. It was probably all the sun, she reasoned. The heat. She'd coped fine until now, but this past day in Venice had been so muggy… There was nothing Edith wanted more than to climb under the covers and rest her aching head.

The stars behind her eyes had finally begun to still, and she felt rather close to dropping off, when the door to their suite opened and Anthony entered, pausing to lock it behind him. He had wanted to bathe before bed, and under his robe was dressed for the heat in nothing more than a light pyjama shirt and underpants…a sight that usually would have pleased Edith very much, were she not so exhausted.

"Mm, hello," she managed, sleepily, as her husband slipped out of his robe, depositing it on a chair with his good hand.  
"Hello, my dear. I bumped into – what's his name – the chap from Hertfordshire…in the hallway just now. He and his wife got round nearly the whole city today, apparently – had a marvellous time. And according to him we simply cannot miss-"

It was at this point Anthony noticed that his wife had not rolled over to face him, but lay quite still.  
"My dear, is something wrong?"  
His voice cut through her sleepy haze, tone tinged with concern, and Edith rallied; rolling onto her back to sigh apologetically.  
"Oh – I'm sorry darling. I just have such a headache."  
"Ah," nodded Anthony, halting in his movement toward the bed. "I'll leave you to rest."

He began to make for the door, to take the adjoining room in their suite (which had remained untouched for their stay thus far); but Edith sat up in bed.  
"No, please stay."  
He paused again, looking rather guilty, but he knew her well enough to see the sincerity in her request.  
"It's – it's a _real_ headache," she felt compelled to add, rather awkwardly. She couldn't bear for him to think she was seeking to avoid him. The man smiled, endeared – but was still mindful of her discomfort.  
"Can I get you something?" he asked softly, lowering his voice for the sake of her ears. "A drink of some sort?"  
She shook her head. He was so very sweet.  
"Thank you, darling – but no. Just, hold me?"  
Anthony smiled then, properly, and it sent a warmth through her tired body. "Gladly."

With his good hand he turned up the covers on his side of the bed, and climbed in. The warmth of him already radiated across the small space between them, and immediately the unfamiliar bedclothes seemed cosier to Edith. She closed the space, nestling up against him, sliding his damaged arm around her shoulders. Her head settled on his chest, and then his good hand came up to stroke her hair.

"Rest now, my darling," he murmured; and as she let her eyes close Edith noted the difference in his touch. Anthony loved to run his fingers through her hair – and she didn't mind it either, come to that – but in this quiet moment any ardour was quelled. His caresses were so impossibly gentle now; soothing touches meant to ease away her tiredness. And it was actually beginning to work, Edith noted.

He always took any chance to take care of her; it meant something to him, she knew, that she could depend on him. And she really could, in every sense – there had been nothing like this, in her old life at Downton. If she were ill, there'd be a tonic, a warm fire…but nothing as tender, as personal as this. She pressed her cheek closer against Anthony's nightshirt, to breathe that comforting, now-familiar scent.

It struck her that, somehow, this quiet stillness was perhaps even more intimate than their most impassioned lovemaking. The even sighs of their breathing, their shared warmth…they were so very _together_, like this_. _

And Edith suddenly noticed that, even despite the ache in her head and the tiredness behind her eyes, her body still reacted to his closeness…an instinctive anticipation of the pleasures that so often accompanied that delicious soap-and-sandalwood Anthony-scent. Edith smiled into his chest – she felt such a _woman_, these days.

She pressed a kiss to the skin-warmed cotton beneath her cheek.

"Anthony?"  
"Mm…?"  
"I love you. So very much."  
"And I love you, my dearest. As well you know."

And he was right.

* * *

**_A/N: _**_I do hope that lived up to your expectations! *peeks out nervously from behind a cushion* _


	10. Epilogue

**_AUTHOR'S NOTE: _**_Well, here it is - the final installment! I do hope you approve of where I'm leaving them..._

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

The house was hushed; dozy. Only the occasional crackle from the fireplace competed with the steady drumming of autumn rain on the roof-slates above.

There _should _have been the heavy thud of books being piled…but, when Anthony entered the library, he found his wife looking rather less than industrious; now curled up with one of the books she had earlier been so intent on shelving amongst his own.

She looked up to hear the door open; and offered the welcome intruder a rather sheepish smile, letting the book fall closed upon her lap.

"I see the library-consolidation is going _terribly_ well," Anthony teased; and her eyes sparkled in the glow from lamps and fire.  
"I've got the alphabetization all sorted out," Lady Strallan insisted, "and perhaps a quarter are already on their shelves. But I just can't face it tonight – it's such a sleepy sort of evening, don't you think? _And_ I suppose I feel I'm encroaching on your system."

The gentleman smiled. "Darling, you're my wife. Encroach on me just as much as you desire."

The smile Edith gave in response to that was…not entirely innocent; and he was reminded how very near-impossible it was to hold a truly mundane conversation with the person one adores. He shook his head.

"Well, _I've _been being terribly productive," he informed her, with his best attempt at smug superiority; an expression so unnatural to him that Edith struggled to look sufficiently offended in response.  
"I've been sorting through the records, so that we'll have something nice when Margie comes to stay. And," – here he raised his good hand, to display a fairly new-looking record – "I found this. I wonder whether it wasn't supposed to be a gift for someone, and got into our collection by mistake. I remember we bought it in Venice…"

Interest piqued, Edith leaned forward in her chair to inspect the dust-jacket, while Anthony frowned in thought.  
"We hadn't been going to give it to Cousin Isobel, had we?"  
"No," his wife answered, confidently, "we gave her that marble mortar and pestle – from the stall next to the one that sold us Mary's joke-gift."  
"Ah yes – that very garish figurine of Andromeda and the sea-monster."

Anthony's mouth twisted into a smirk at the memory – of Edith relating the anecdote, of her glee upon daring to buy it…and Mary's expression when the 'gift' was unwrapped.

"Which _I_, personally, thought was hilarious," he added, after a beat.  
"Good thing you married _me_, then." Edith shot him a wry smile.  
"Oh, I don't know," shrugged Anthony, with feigned indifference – as though he wouldn't have been too fussed either way – "I think Mary was secretly rather amused."  
It was possible to joke about perhaps having married the wrong sister, precisely because it could not have been more obvious that Anthony adored the woman he _had _married with every fibre of his being. The 'warning glare' Edith gave him was scarcely more convincing.  
"Still," she smirked, "it was a good thing we pulled out that gorgeous pearl set."

"Mm. Well, this is a mystery, then," Anthony sighed, looking down at the Italian record in his good hand.  
"Why don't you set it playing, and we'll see if anything jogs the memory?"

The gentleman did so, then came to join his wife on the sofa. Instinctively, they settled close together – turning towards each other in a way that belied all of their previous teasing. The Strallans were not fooling themselves, or anyone.

"What have you been reading?" Anthony enquired, gesturing to her abandoned book.  
"Oh," she sighed, "just a little Wordsworth. 'The Female Vagrant'."  
She paused, running her finger down the binding.  
"Actually, it made me wonder if I'm not being a great hypocrite, with this letter-writing business."  
Her husband frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Do you know the poem? It's the one about the woman whose life falls apart by stages. Her father is forced to move from their traditional family home, by the greed of a lord; and then her husband dies in revolution, and she's left to scavenge to feed her child.  
And, well - I've never known anything _like _that sort of predicament. I'm not a sufferer; I'm closer to a 'greedy lord' than anything else. And _although _people suffer, while I enjoy our privilege, all I 'do' about it is complain to the newspapers." Pausing at last, the woman shrugged. "I've never been very hands-on with a cause – not like Sybil."

Anthony frowned at this harsh self-representation; though the expression was softened by love, and honest admiration.  
"I don't think you're being quite fair on yourself, my darling – you're the most practical lady I know. And – as far as working for causes – what was it that Ralph Waldo Emerson said…? 'Thought is the seed of action'. Your writing is important. And well-received, I might add."

He couldn't keep the pride from his voice at that; to think of those letters in the _Times_ by 'Lady Strallan'. Ten times more persuasive than the usual tiresome guff that was so often published.

"And anyway, I don't see that there's anything so very wrong with 'enjoying our privilege' – _while_ making sure we act on the corresponding responsibilities. Surely it would be worse to _waste_ the comforts we're blessed with – to enjoy them is to show a proper appreciation. The Epicurean philosophers lived very simply, but their fundamental principle was to seek pleasure and avoid pain. It seems only sensible to me."

A half-convinced smile played on Edith's features.  
"Well, I'm glad you think so – because it seems I can't help being entirely too fond of _things_."  
She gestured hopelessly around the library. "I love our books, and our piano...and the Rolls, of course."  
Anthony grinned, and she continued; shifting to lean a little against his shoulder. This cosy arrangement of two thinkers was not uncommon.

"And places, too. Houses. You couldn't _pay_ me to live at Downton now; it's inclined to be stifling, and I'm _so_ happy here. But there is something in just knowing that it's still there, even though _I'm_ not. Do you know what I mean?"  
"Oh yes," the gentleman replied, quite seriously. "I haven't the faintest desire to relive my school days – particularly not now – but I should be very sorry if Eton's halls were sold or destroyed. And I suppose that's a sign that I must have been happier there than I might have thought I was at the time."

He turned his head, to find Edith smiling at him, quietly and steadily.  
"You're such a wonderfully thoughtful man."  
Anthony scoffed, but stroked her hand where it sat on his knee.  
"And you are the loveliest, most remarkable creature. You know, I haven't the foggiest idea what I'd do without you. I don't even want to think about it."  
Resting her head on his shoulder, his wife offered a typically pragmatic reply. "Let's not."  
"Mm, good idea. I did say you were clever."

Edith Crawley's laugh had once been tentative – her smiles had wavered, tremulous – as though every little happiness were as much a vulnerability as a gain. But Edith Strallan…she laughed warm and long, and her subtle grin was fearless. The change had been gradual, but the result was breath-taking.

The library was cosy, and the rain was oddly soothing; and, with his wife at nestled snugly his side, Anthony felt quite impossibly content. Then the record player crackled, and a new piece of music pervaded the stillness.

_Che gelida manina! Se la lasci riscaldar?  
Cercar che giova? Al buio non si trova…_

Anthony froze – it was practically unnoticeable, because they had been so still, but he froze all the same. He remembered, now, _exactly_ why he'd bought this record.

And that was not all that he remembered.

Could she have forgotten? It had been a good seven years…the most part of a decade. Or was she silently wondering the same, of him? A lover's teasing test?  
He couldn't turn and look at her – his eyes would give it all away.

Instead, Anthony reached slowly into his pocket, with the one good hand he still possessed; retrieved a handkerchief, and - saying nothing - pressed it into the lady's hand.

A pause – and then her fingers closed over his. Feeling warm laughter rise within him - and unable to sustain his 'nonchalance' any longer - Anthony turned his head to meet her gaze.

It occurred to them both in that moment, that, just because something is old and familiar, does not mean that it must cease to stir the heart.

A truth that was reiterated; when Edith tossed the handkerchief aside, and pulled her husband into a kiss – the likes of which they'd shared, oh, a hundred times before. The kind of kiss that would never have been permitted in the orchestra-stalls of York's grandest concert hall.

But thankfully that wouldn't be a problem, just this evening. Anthony and Edith were at home.

* * *

**_A/N:_** _And, there it is. I hope you feel I've done right by these two - I do think they deserve the best of all things!_

_I must thank, again, my brilliant beta WisdomState: her thoughtful comments and wonderful enthusiasm have made all the difference. (You're a darling!)_

_And thank YOU, for reading all of this, and for reviewing so kindly - *and* for having the good sense to see that Anthony & Edith are the sweetest and most well-suited couple in Yorkshire! __(Am I right or am I right?)_

_Best and jolliest regards,  
Genevieve_


End file.
